


like the rain chooses the grass

by Tsume_Yuki



Series: Female Harry x Marvel Soulmark Stories [8]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Erik's foul mouth, F/M, Female Harry Potter, I'VE TRIED MY BEST, Racist Language, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Touches on racism because this is a Black Panther crossover, if I have to suffer then so do you, welcome to rarepair hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-06-27 12:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15685254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsume_Yuki/pseuds/Tsume_Yuki
Summary: Fuck. Not once had he ever considered his soulmate would be anything other than a black woman. His opinions on that are already far too solidified to allow for anything else.Yet green eyes and a carbon copy soulmark are telling him otherwise.Fuck this shit.





	1. Chapter 1

  


 

“Fuck are you following me ‘round for.” It’s not a question and it is, all at once.

The girl (spirals of black curls, brilliant green eyes and altogether too white for him to ever give her a second glance) wraps one hand around her wrist and nervously shuffles her feet. There should be absolutely no reason for her to keep popping up in his dreams like this.

“I, uh, our marks.” Oh fuck no.

Erik Stevens clamps one hand down over his thigh, scowling at the girl before him. She’s near his age, probably a year or two younger, if he had to take a guess. Not as smart as him, not as driven; it’s written all over her face. There’s a strength in her eyes, but it’s not hardened, it’s not burning like his. It’s defensive in nature; she’ll come out with teeth and claws but only when she’s pushed, only when she’s backed into a corner. She doesn’t have the drive to get out there and chase what she wants, that much is obvious.

There’s a scar on her forehead, short and simple and way too crisp to be anything but purposefully bestowed. He’s not interested in the slightest.

The mark twisting up her forearm (Wakandan in design, curling into the same lightning bolt shape that spears across her brow) keeps screaming otherwise.

Fuck. Not once had he ever considered his soulmate would be anything other than a black woman. His opinions on that are already far too solidified to allow for anything else.

Yet green eyes and a carbon copy soulmark are telling him otherwise.

Fuck this shit.

 

She’s there again the next night, as usual. But unlike all the other times, she actually begins to venture closer now. Her hands (small and callous and lily-white) tremble ever so slightly before she clenches her fingers, face firming up. He hasn’t got time for this. He’s got six exams rapidly approaching, lingering in wait on the horizon as a final semester ambush. He’d much rather be revising than be here. There’s little he wouldn’t prefer to do over being present here with this, this, whitey.

She stops beside him and Erik instantly stands, shoulders straight and head high. Stupidly big green eyes (and fuck they are green, green like summer grass, greener than any eyes he’s ever seen before) stare up at him; he’s at least half a foot taller than her and promises to keep growing, she has no choice other than to look up because like hell is he gonna sit for her.

“My name’s Harrie,” she opens with and Erik snorts.

“I don’t care.” Pale as fuck lips twitch up in a tiredly amused smile, hand raking through the only dark part of her. The black curls flutter down, sweeping out across her shoulders and framing the long column of her neck. No jewellery. Given the clothes she’s wearing it hardly seems like she can afford a half decent set of threads, never mind some gold or silver. Hell, they ain’t even girl’s clothes; god in heaven please let this be a necessity and not a fashion choice. He’d like to say the name’s a choice, but with what white people are like now…

“That makes a change.” And fuck, she’s actually acting like this is something she’s pleased about. As if she’s happy he thinks little of her name (it’s not just the name he thinks little of).

He doesn’t answer her when she asks after his name.

 

It goes on that way for a week; they meet in their dreams, Erik valiantly mentally recites knowledge on his approaching tests, ‘Harrie’ gets ignored. On the eighth day, however, things change. Things change because when he shows up, Harrie doesn’t greet him. When he shows up, she’s not wearing the ridiculous baggy clothes that swamp her frame. If the English accent hadn’t given her away before, the private school girl uniform certainly would now. What’s outta place though is the sheer amount of dirt, blood and grim she’s caked in. And the blood, well, there’s too much around her arm and she’s too pale (just when he thought she couldn’t get any more white she goes and proves him wrong) for it not to belong to her.

“Fuck happened?” His mouth runs away with him. But hell, it looks like someone grabbed the girl and dragged her through the sewers by her ankles. Her privilege-hinting outfit is shot to hell which is a shame because, typical white gear or not, it’s the first half decent thing he’s seen her in. She looks fucking wrecked and not in the bitch fight kind of way Erik would have expected to see of the girls from his childhood home. There’s no bullet or stab wounds that he can see either, so whatever occurred is not something he’s ever seen before.

Harrie flicks her gaze up to look at him without really seeing him. Erik’s teeth grind against one another. He’s fucking tired of that shit, of people acknowledging there’s a body but not really a person. He’s made the teachers acknowledge him, made the senior staff sit up and take note, made himself shine so fucking bright that they can’t ignore him even behind closed eyes. So, she doesn’t get to do that either.

“What happened, Coloniser.”

It all comes spilling out. As if that single command is enough to shatter a dam, to dissolve steel and collapse barricades, and Erik can only sit back to watch as the bomb go off. And hell, what a bomb it is. Were he anyone else, he’d probably never have believed shit about a secret society. But he knows of Wakanda, what’s the chances of a second one going unnoticed too? He bitterly picks up on the underlying context to all of her words, how the circumstances of a person’s birth can leave them inferior in the eyes of others. White superiority under a different banner that’s not technically ‘white’ but still all about remaining pure. He’s not surprised in the least. He also feels pretty fucking sick. These muggleborns aren’t his people (they’re not one of his, he’s not one of them) but their struggle… a society that seeks to oppress them and a fucking madman hunting them down for sport… it’s too close to the bone.

It’s not so much that he’s paying rapt attention to the girl’s words, but it’s hella hard to ignore the world shifting around them, the story playing out on film, a layer of dirt upon the surface the only thing separating Erik from being present in the whole spectacle. Her description (brief and short, formed with sharp words that does nothing to smooth the mental image into existence) is lacklustre but the moving images behind her more than make up for it. He watches the little scrap of a white girl face off against the very image of white supremacy wrapped up in an anti-‘muggle’ package. Watches as the tiny twelve-year-old (she’s two and a half years younger than him, she hasn’t even turned thirteen yet) armed with nothing more than a sword goes up against the biggest fucking snake Erik could have ever imagined. He’s barely listening to the girl now, too busy witnessing the trial she’s been through and against every damn instinct he has, he feels a little seed of respect for the whitey settle in his stomach. Ignoring their physical forms… at least he’s been lumped with a fighter.

The tale also explains why the Wakanda word for ‘great snake’ has worked its way into their soulmark designs. He pushes down the bout of hysteria that bubbles up. Because hell, if Whitey here is going to be off gallivanting around a magical community getting up to fuck knows what… well, his soulmark is only going to continue to grow in interesting ways, that much is clear. As the show comes to an end and the cracker girl slumps down to sit on the ground, Erik can’t drum up the willpower to dismiss her as usual.

“Erik.” Her head snaps up, those ridiculous eyes the only colour to her face.

“What?”

“I’ma not saying it again,” he snarls, arms folded and valiantly ignoring the little smile that slowly blooms across her lips, the way she repeats his name softly beneath her breath. As if that American name is something to treasure or some shit like that.

 

After that Erik doesn’t warm up to her, so to speak. But… he does give her a little leeway. It’s minuscule but she’s like a mouse he’s found in the pantry and doesn’t quite have the heart to kick out. No one will know of this soft spot. She’s at home (sort of) in her own segregated society, it’s not like they’ll ever really meet. It becomes a strange kind of resting place; they never truly talk to each other, but one will start to rant or explain the events of the day, the other will listen but not offer any real substantial input. It’s tense as hell but it’s not the deathly silence Erik had treated her to before. Harrie is back in her older cousin’s cast-off’s (something’s not right there but Erik’s not gonna jump on it, it’s not his business) and she’s bitching about the aunt of her cousin coming to visit. An aunt she hates with a passion because she’s released hounds on Harrie more than once. Privately, Erik wonders why Harrie just doesn’t magic them out of existence or something but he supposes, like vibranium, even magic could have limitations. He’s worked out how to will paper and pens into existence here and, while he can’t bring books here he’s not yet memorised, he can rehearse what he knows again and again, until it’s embedded in there and he doesn’t even need to think before he knows the answer. His exams for the year are over and done with, it’s summer vacation but he’s hard at work for the next lot. That’s when he’s not busy with the summer job to rake in some cash for savings purposes. Oh, he’s gonna ride on the best white collage on government grants, he won’t accept anything less. But he’s desperate for financial independence from the state.

“I blew up Aunt Marge.” It takes a second for the sentence to register in Erik’s mind, but th second it does, his head snaps up to look at the girl. She’s laid flat across the ‘ground’, limbs sprawled out every which way and looking a hella lot less distressed than he’d have expected. He recalls the giant snake’s gory death, the shade of white privilege under a different banner and the scream the… being had made when she stabbed that book. That sound had been a highlight in his nightmares for a bit, right beside his daddy’s body and those panther claws that haunt his every waking moment. A quick scan of the girl’s slumped frame shows no blood or bone; given the state she’d been in after the giant snake-

“You wash up before you slept or something.” She startles and Erik’s not surprised by it, It’s the first time he’s really addressed her with something to answer since the snake incident.

“Wha- no. I’m knackered. I just went straight to sleep.” Huh. Probably something to do with the magic then. Erik takes note of it but then returns to his revision, jotting down the next formula in a long line of equations because it’s not his shit to deal with. If the girl’s traumatised by it all (though she doesn’t seem to be which should be ringing some fucking alarm bells with someone) it’s not his problem. It’s not like she can cause him any harm given that they’re not physically meeting each other and that they’re… soulmates. Swallowing around the lump of disgust in his throat (not that it clears his pharynx in the slightest), Erik forges on with the maths revision. He’ll get through all this before the night is out and start looking up the new shit tomorrow. In the very least, this meeting in dreams crap is at least allowing him to continue striving forwards with his education.

 

He doesn’t’ pay too much attention to her rants, though the whole escaped convict out for her blood does have him twinging with interest. Learning that it’s the man who sold her parents out to the pureblood-pushing bastard does send a twinge of unwanted sympathy through his guts, but he stomps the sensation out before he can do anything stupid. Like volunteer to teach her where to strike best to kill a man with maximum pain (he’s already well aware he’ll be going into the Black Ops in his future, it’s all part of the plan that’s slowly fleshing out). Besides, there’s probably some kind of magic shit that allows her to do a better job of it. Like exploding a human being which she is, apparently, perfectly capable of. The blasé way she’d spoken about it indicates that these magics are fucking psychos and Erik’s quite comfortable with the knowledge there’s an ocean between them.

By the end of the year he’s aced his exams (as expected) and it’s revealed that Harrie’s murderous convict is innocent and her godfather. He’s still on the run though, she informs him drolly. So, no better living conditions for her. Erik considers her last school year, considers the current one that has just wrapped up, and concludes she’s probably done with all the antics now. Of course, he’s wrong.

 

He’s heard one too many screams (Cedric, whoever the fuck that is), hasn’t been able to do nothing but watch as the lilywhite skin beneath her eyes steadily trooped towards an exhausted black and she doesn’t talk anymore. It’s the throbbing on the mark on his thigh (the syntaxes they share now decorated with a disgusting brand of ‘violated’ in Wakandan) that pushes him to do it. That’s the truth of it, nothing more, nothing less. Before he’s really got his head on right, he’s on the cheapest flight out to London he could find with two Great British Pounds for every three Dollars he transferred over. The exchange rate sucks balls but at least the coins are sensical, decreasing in weight as they decrease in value.

Finding her isn’t easy. He’s got no last name to work from but he does have the blood aunt’s full name; Petunia Dursley. He might not have responded to her rants, might not have shown he’s listening. But, like it or not (and he fucking well doesn’t), she’s his soulmate. It’d be his luck for some fucker to find her and use her against him somehow. Hey, there’s magic in the world, he’s not ruling it out.

 

The neighbourhood is something right out of a baby boomer’s 1950s wet-dream. All uniform houses, all cookie cutter shit that he’s surprised to see aren’t decorated with the typical white-picket fences. The little luggage he’d decided to bring with him is back at the hotel; he’s only got a rucksack full of essentials with him as he prowls down the street, grinning at the nosy as fuck housewife that’s peering out her kitchen window at him. With his ripped jeans and worn tee, he sure as hell doesn’t fit in with the aesthetic they’ve got going on here. He doesn’t rush to approach number four (though he does have to inspect each house carefully as he goes past; they’re all so fucking similar), sauntering up the drive as if he’s the most dangerous thing in the fucking place.

Luckily, he doesn’t even have to get to the front door before two heads are peering at him from the rosebushes. One’s got the face of a horse, fake-ass pearls collaring her unnaturally long neck; Erik’s skin crawls just from looking at her. The other one, well, he knows the face more than he’d care to given he’s seen it practically every night for the last two years. She’s staring, mouth hanging open and grip on the hedge trimmers so loose they’re a half-minute away from hitting the ground. Cheeks red, pasty English skin sunburnt from too much time in the summer heat. Fuck, he’s almost relieved to see her and he’s not enjoying the implications of that.

“Who are you.” Horse-face snaps and her tone indicates that any answer she receives is going to be the wrong one and nothing he can do will change that. Well fuck her. Erik’s been leaving fuckers like her in the dust for more years than she’s probably been hosting half-assed dinner parties. Just another whitey scum filled to the brim with bitter self-entitlement, riding on the coattails of her ancestors who got their riches by riding on the backs of his own. He’s got nothing to say to her, nothing ‘cept-

“Don’t worry ‘bout Harrie, I’ma take her off your hands for a while.” He smiles, makes sure it flashes more bone white teeth than is strictly necessary. It’s not a friendly expression. Horse-face goes to say some shit but Harrie’s already dropped the hedge-trimmers to the scorched earth with a heavy thunk, all but fleeing from her aunt’s side. She’s still staring at him as if she can’t quite believe he’s there. It’s flattering, in a way that makes him feel slimy for it. He don’t need her positive attitude. Just needs her to stop with the nightmares that’re leaking into his own wellbeing. If that means coming over here and instructing her on how to sort her shit out, then so be it.

“Hello,” she whispers, all English accent and stupid big eyes. He’s never been anything near welcoming to her but with a homelife this shit, he can see why that’s not put her off yet. Sparing one last glance to the horse-faced woman that must be Harrie’s aunt (and if he’s stuck with her, at least she’s not as ugly as whitey could be) to peer down his nose at her, Erik spins on his heels and heads back down the drive.

He barks,” keep up,” and she’s quick to fall in step with him, still smiling. Ridiculous thing she is.

Now he just needs to know how he’s gonna figure this shit out in the next three days.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

They end up at the playground, with wrought iron chains holding up flimsy plastic swings and a slide in desperate need of a re-paint. Harrie watches Erik from the corner of her eye (she doesn’t even know his last name but he seems so much larger in real life). He looks at the hoop for basketball with a shine of something in his eyes, as if he’s seeing something that’s not quite there. It makes her nervous but not nervous of him. It doesn’t make sense but then what about her life does right now? Dropping onto one of the swings, she’s not surprised that he refuses to join her, instead settling for prowling back and forth before her. Hunched forwards with her elbows resting on her knees, Harrie runs her thumb back and forth across her arm, up and down the thick lash of scar from Voldemort’s rebirth. It still feels like she’s been violated, ripped apart and her blood stolen. Her mother’s protection desecrated by the very monster that killed her. That it’d sliced right through her soulmark had only stoked her determination to get out of there. As with any other soulmark that’d ever been cut open, it’s slowly bleeding through the scar tissue, the strange symbols alongside what she recognises as Parselscript steadily darkening over the blisteringly white skin of the scar. ‘Orphan’ and ‘fighter’ are visible again. She wonders if those words are for her or for Erik. He’s only ever raged about exams before, or the teachers who look down their nose at him until he’s stuffed the latest test he’s blasted through in their faces.

“The fuck happened.” It’s not a question but then again it never is with Erik. It’s ridiculous but it’s one of the things Harrie likes. Because everyone always seems to be asking questions but Erik, he just demands. Like he fully expects her to give the answer and there’s no right or wrong. It’s just the answer. He doesn’t know her as the Girl Who Lived, doesn’t know her as the last Potter. She’s just Harrie and he finds her wanting. That’s okay because she finds him wanting too. He’s angry all the time, he judges her on her appearance (not the wild mess of hair or the scar on her face but by the colour of her skin and that’s not something she’s ever thought she’d have to worry about) and he doesn’t have any intentions of opening up to her. That’s clear as hell. But he’s driven, determined in a way that she’s not because he’s striving for something. Harrie doesn’t know what the hell she wants with life and she’s never been given a moment to really think on it. Maybe it comes with age; Erik is clearly older than her but not by too much. He’s also rocked up out of nowhere, undoubtedly scandalising Aunt Petunia with his ripped jeans, short dreads and devil-may-care attitude. That alone has made her day. Perhaps that’s why it all comes rushing out of her mouth. She tells him of the kidnapping, of Cedric dying before her eyes, of Voldemort’s ritual and the theft of her blood, the way he’d circumvented her mother’s protection. How she’s been declared crazy by the Ministry and no one is listening to her because they’d all rather bury their heads in the sand then deal with the problem. Each sentence only has Erik’s jaw tightening, the muscles in his neck twitching. He might not want her and Harrie might not be qualified for the bundle of rage that sits at his core… but she can’t help but sit and think what could have been. If she’d been a little bit more impressive and if Erik had been willing to compromise a little more. He’s iron set in his beliefs though and she’s got enough on her plate as it is. She wouldn’t even know where to begin on proving herself against whatever he’s got against her.

As she finishes speaking, Erik’s lips thin, hands stuffed deep into the pits of his trouser pockets. He’s scanning their surroundings, eyes lingering on Dudley and his stupid little gang who are foolish enough to be looking over at them. Usually they’d be over trying to taunt her, insinuating things about her, no doubt. They used to whisper about her mother until she broke Polkiss’ nose. They don’t dare touch that topic again.

“Decide what the fuck you want to happen. Either let ‘em lay in the grave they’ve dug or come out swingin’,” Erik grunts, folding his arms across his chest and finally turning his sharp eyes on her. Harrie wonders what this looks like to anyone from the outside; Erik’s clearly got two or three years on her and with his assessing gaze and dark mannerisms… but Harrie’s far from helpless herself so she meets his gaze head on, fingers clenching into tight little fists. “Don’t take shit from no one and start giving as good as you get. You gonna let these pure-bastards win walk all-over you just ‘cause your Mama wasn’t good enough for them?” The underlying ‘you better fucking not’ has Harrie’s spine straightening. She’s not sure when Erik decided that she was worth noticing, when he clicked that she only fights back when there’s something on the line rather than for herself, or if he’s just projecting on her. But he’s right. Lily Evans was a muggleborn, a mudblood as they’d put it. Harrie wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for that woman and every time she doesn’t stand up against even the slightest bit of discrimination… well, if she’d been alive, those taunts would’ve been directed at her mother. She’s punched Polkiss for it, why should it be any different for anything Malfoy says, or Parkinson or all the other bigots?

“No. I’m not going to let them do that.”

“Then stop worrying ‘bout shit and start doing shit instead.” Erik’s arms are still crossed over his chest but he’s looking down at her appraisingly. Like she’s proven herself interesting. How he, as a muggle, couldn’t find a witch for a soulmate interesting, she doesn’t know. Isn’t that just another point Voldemort and his followers would pick up on, if they knew? Her muggle soulmate. He’d be in so much danger just by being linked to her. It’s not safe for him here, is it? For once, she’s thankful he lives in America, that he doesn’t have enough invested in their mark (in her) to really consider making this thing work. That he’s even here at all is surprising. The cost alone…

“You didn’t have to come here… Do you want any money for travel?” She’d have to get to Gringotts to get it but seeing as no one seems to be keeping her in the loop at the moment and the Prophet isn’t reporting anything other than how much of a dirty liar she is-

“I don’t need you blood-money,” Erik spits, scowl back on his face and isn’t it stupid how she finds that expression such a relief, she’s just so used to it. “I need you to get your shit under control and stop it leakin’ through.”

“I’ll work on it,” Harrie promises, ruffling a hand through her hair and Erik almost stops frowning.

“Good, ‘cause I ain’t comin’ back.”

 

 

He leaves after that, with only a moment to give her a quick glance over. As promised, she doesn’t see him again for the rest of the summer but the aftertaste of his visit still lingers. When Dudley next corner’s her, asking if she’s selling herself to a black man now (though that’s not how he describes him but Harrie refuses to think of the words he uses), she pops him one in the face. That it bruises so magnificently can be nothing other than magical interference; the rest of his gang scamper off, scream that she’s a crazy bitch but all she can think on is the demand. ‘Stop worrying ‘bout shit and start doing shit instead’. It’s the crassest piece of advice she’s ever received. Perhaps that’s why she listens to it.

When the dementors come, she whips out her wand and a Patronus.

When she gets whisked away to Grimmauld Place, she makes herself known. When Mrs Weasley tries to bar her from the Order meetings she slams down her encounters with Voldemort, wields her orphan status like a weapon. The Goblet of Fire dictated she’s of age, why can double standards be applied here? When she’s still barred with only Sirius fighting her corner, Harrie reacts how she thinks Erik would. She plots and plans and trains. The Black library is full of spells, some legal and some not so legal. Now in her dreams, Erik scribbles away on whatever he’s working on and Harrie goes through the motions of her magic.

At the hearing, she’s unbent and unbroken, refusing to bow before the weight of her elders (the vast majority of whom, she notices, are all heads of pureblood houses sitting on the government panels) because she is in the right. When they try to dismiss her demand they acknowledge Voldemort, she looks Fudge right in the eye and snarls he better hope they can find another Girl-Who-Lived to blow the bastard up when he comes back around, because with this treatment she sure as hell won’t be throwing herself under that bus. It’s a lie (Voldemort is the bigot who saw her mother dead simply because she dared to be born) but they don’t know that. She hopes they’re worried, they should be.

 

 

For the first time in her life, Hogwarts doesn’t feel safe from the very start. There’s the pink toad and Harrie never once buckles before her, no matter what she breaks out. Her hand is constantly screaming in pain and she rants at Erik practically every night. She’s not sure how much attention he pays to her and she honestly doesn’t care at this point. It’s nice to have a place where she can just express herself without worry about retribution. At one point, Erik goes off on his own tangent about bigots that ends up spiralling into the old white men that runs his current school (collage? University? Harrie doesn’t actually know) and their racist ways. Erik’s a muggleborn in his own Hogwarts. Could those bigoted Slytherins be called racist, or would it be a different terminology? Certainly, it’s discrimination, that much Harrie knows for sure.

She takes Erik’s advice; she stops worrying about shit and just focuses on getting on with it all. She starts the Defence Association, her own revolution against the pink toad. She’s almost never off her soapbox, proclaiming Voldemort’s return for any and all to hear. Her hand drips with blood daily. Begrudgingly, she accepts Snape’s lessons for Occlumency. She flinches when she sees his worst memory and almost feels sorry for the bastard, until she hears what he calls her mum. Snape rages at her but Harrie snarls right back, screams her mother was not lesser because of his blood and that he can take his bigoted prejudice and fuck himself with it. The two weeks of the detention she gets from that are the best so far this year and given they’re with Snape, that’s saying something.

 

 

Time passes, as always. She sits her exams with the single-minded determination to follow in Hermione’s footsteps and do her damn best. When Umbridge had intruded on her career’s meeting, Harrie had looked her in the eye and proclaimed she ride to Minister on her fame, fortune and talents to change the world for the better. For future witches and wizards like her mother. The fury in the pink toad’s face had been worth the extra intense detention that’s followed.

So Harrie tires her hardest, puts her all into it with a burning purpose she’s not seen from anyone else other than Erik. For a moment, she can almost see why they’ve been paired up, why it is she’s got such a fighter for a soulmate, muggle or not. She just needed the right push, the right kick in the pants to get going. Erik might not appreciate it, but she owes it to him, the burning in her gut and the throbbing on her hand. Harrie ploughs on and on and perhaps that’s why the vision blindsides her when it happens.

 

 

Sirius dies. Sirius dies and so does that last little bit of Harrie that craved parental affection.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He feels it, once the ache wears from his muscles and the breath returns to his lungs. It’s the standardised (and a little extra) fitness test for potential military recruits (a cunning disguise to weed out the strong contenders from the geniuses that are finishing their education sooner and at a higher level than expected) and Erik has aced it. He’s blown every other fucker here out of the water, the few of his black brothers present and breezed past the crackers. It’s with victory running through his veins and a massive scholarship grant that he retires to his accommodations on the grounds, throwing himself down on the bed. Even then, with all this triumph, the sorrow and heart-break still suckerpunches him in the gut. It’s coming home and finding his daddy with panther claws in his chest all other again, it’s the agony of knowing he’s alone again with no one to rely on and it’s an emotion that doesn’t fucking belong in his life right now. Not when everything is starting to come together.

He’s not sure when he drops off, still with his track boots on and probably rubbing the mud he’s been caked on off onto his once clean sheets. But he knows where the constant barrage of sorrow is coming from when he gets there because Harrie’s hunched in on herself with a thousand-yard stare. She doesn’t even register he’s here.

“Whitey,” Erik snaps, storming over and crouching down. Her soulmark is clear on her skin, some of the squiggles have changed and the Wakandan word for a deep loss is smeared into the design now. She still doesn’t look up at him, still doesn’t register he’s there and Erik scowls harder. It’s the first time he’s ever gotten down on her level, first time he’s ever gotten this close to her. She’s even whiter up close, paler than ever. The stupid scar on her brow almost matches her skin and there’s the same dark bags under her eyes that he’d chased away over summer by telling her to buck the fuck up. This is not getting shit done. “Harrie,” he injects as much iron- no, as much vibranium into his voice as he can and finally those glass green eyes wobble up to look at him. They shouldn’t be glassy, they’re usually the only colourful thing about her. She’s not allowed to let that fade too, he absolutely refuses to be stuck with white washy trash. “The fuck happened.” Her lips tremble, shoulders shaking and Erik does not have time for a breakdown now. No, that’s not quite right, he’s not got the patience to deal with it. He’s seen one breakdown (his own) to last him a lifetime. He flat out refuses to witness another one.

“Sirius died.” It comes out as a croak, her throat clearly wrecked from crying and the flesh around her eyes is swollen as fuck. It takes Erik a moment to recall who the fuck Sirius is; the godfather. Her last chance at a father figure. Nothing in him softens but, but there is an understanding there. Because he’s not some high and mighty white asshole who can’t understand suffering and’ll look down on others for daring to be express it. Harrie’s white as fuck but it’s fucking painful how she’s almost a negative-tone mirror of his life. No parents, incredible loss, the prejudice that smacks her in the face for the mother that wasn’t pure enough. Erik’s teeth grind back and forth, his hands clenched tight.

“Did you get the bastard who killed him?” Someone has to have killed him; she’s acting like it was an utter shock, she’s got that look to her face, the one Erik had seen in the mirror every day ever since he came back to the apartment to see the door ajar and-

“She got away… I, I got caught up and Voldemort was there and-” She breaks off in a choking sob, wet and weak. Erik scowls, catching her chin between his forefinger and thumb and forcing her to look at him.

“If you can’t deal with loss, then get the fuck out of there. If you’re gonna stand up and make sure no bigoted fucker can hurt you again, then stand the fuck up.” He releases her face as soon as he’s able to, refusing to stop staring right at her until she’s got the fucking message. He does not have time for this shit. He’s got a plan, he’s got a goal and he sure as fuck doesn’t need her mess bleeding over into his life. She’s got her secret community where it’s blood not skin (but the same in that it’s all about pedigree) and he doesn’t let his shit seep into her life. Whitey gotta show the same courtesy. Finally, something in her eyes seems to harden and it’s not that defensive shit he saw the first time they met. There’s something burning there now, something determined and bright. It’s the first time Erik’s looked at her and actually found the attitude worthwhile. Girl’s been bitten too many time and is only now realising she’s got fangs.

“I’m getting up,” Harrie mutters and it’s a firm promise, her face set. It’s about fucking time. Maybe now he’ll be able to get on with his own life and not have to worry about sorting hers out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn every last one of you that left notes. This was suppose to be a two-shot where Harrie used occulumency to close off the link as Erik requested, who'd then occasionally look at the soulmark and it's developments and wonder what she's getting up to, until he's dying before that sunset and she pops up, asking if, in death, he'd be willing to leave the ancestral plain for a little bit at some point to come talk to her, with some shit about not trying to cage someone and Harrie not going where she's not welcomed (the Wakandan ancestral plain). 
> 
> Then you all went and gave me ideas.  
> I'm nervous about this because I know Erik is a beloved character (and he's so delightfully complex) and he's hard as hell to judge because it's difficult on how I can have him grow without compromising key components of his character. I'll try my best though.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

 

Despite that Harrie’s world is at war… the time continues to pass. Erik is serving in Iraq when Harrie begins crooning about her potions success, whatever the fuck that is. He’s picturing cauldrons and frogs eyes and thinks he’s probably not that far off. She sits and listens as he rants about the fucker in his squad that thinks he’s the shit and is undoubtedly going to get himself killed off one day. If it doesn’t happen soon enough, Erik can feel his own hands itching to take care of him. But he pushes the thought away; it’s counter-productive to his plan to start offing the other Navy SEALs in his unit. He almost kinda misses MIT, even though there’d always been so many upturned noses (‘what’s the kid doing here’ as they’d stare at his face, almost like they were tryin’ ta will it white or something) that he could pull down without a worry.

He makes his first kill soon enough, followed by three more and it’s easy. The sniping, shooting them as they come out, these idiots who oppress their own people. It’s only after a moment that he decides to begin ritualistically marking his body for each kill. The first handful are just dotted on his inner left wrist, a minor mirror to the soulmark Harrie has upon her left arm. There’d once been a deep scar that cut through her markings, he recalls, until the pattern had died the newly healed skin. It’s the first time he really looks at the soulmark on her arm, tracing the cicatrix beneath with his eyes.

Of course, just as things seem to be picking up for her, it all seems to go to shit again when the Headmaster of her school dies. Erik’s not too sympathetic (why should he be when it’s just some old coot that’s kicked the bucket?) but he does understand the wrinkly old bastard had been the only thing keeping the bigot from descending on them.

 

 

“We’re going on the run, to track down some things that will help defeat Voldemort.”

‘Bout a year ago, Harrie figured out how to will her wand into existence in their meeting place; she spends all of her time practicing different spells now, little white face crumpled in defiance of the bastards who keep trying to put her down. He listens as she explains each spell and what it should do because this might be important to him one day, if Harrie fails and the snake fucker starts gunning for the non-magic people. The primary thing he’s picked up if avoid the green lights (death) and the red ones (torture curse that helpfully sometimes doesn’t have a colour either). Fuck that. It might be that he’s been stretching this creative muscle longer, but it doesn’t take too much effort to will a few targets into existence. Issue with willing stuff up here is that he needs to picture it all, every piece of it. It’s easier to think of each individual piece of a gun then put it together, rather than chance willing the full gun up and forget a piece.

When he does so, Harrie spends some time eyeing him as he puts the gun together, but otherwise, gets on with her target practice.

 

 

Shit happens. That much is clear. The marks on Erik’s left arm slowly begin to spiral up towards his elbow. The dark bags from past years begin squatting under Harrie’s eyes again. One night she shows up with that same thousand-yard stare and another scar stretching across her left arm, right through her soulmark. ‘Blood-traitor’ is scrawled across the markings, right between the Wakanda markings for ‘orphan’ and ‘fighter’. She doesn’t say fuck all, doesn’t practice her spell-shit, just stares. Broken. Erik plonks his ass down next to her, vaguely uncomfortable about it all, even though there’s still a buffer of air between their arms. She’s got her legs tucked up to her chest, jeans ripped at the knees and bloodied, the elbows of her jumper in the same state.

“Fuck happened.” He seems to do that a lot around her, demand answers because she sure as hell doesn’t talk freely about whatever shit happens to her. It’s the first time that Harrie just looks at him for a moment before answering.

“I killed her. Stuck Gryffindor’s sword through her when it appeared in my hand. I’ve- I’ve never done that before.” Never killed before. For all that’s she got so much shit to deal with… this is first kill break-down. Erik doesn’t know how to handle it; he’s seen how the ones in his unit work through it with each other but Erik’s not built for that soft comfort shit. It’s a hard fact of life but everyone dies and sometimes you gotta be the one to put them in their grave. Some people aren’t worth it. “She killed Sirius,” Harrie chokes out but there’s fire in her eyes as she stares forwards, fingers digging tight into the flesh of her thighs. The tone of voice, well, Erik’s not proud. Can’t be. But there is the smallest, tiniest bit of pleasure at knowing that, whatever her race, Harrie’s got her revenger for the killer of her father figure.

Neither of them move, not touching but sitting close enough together to bask in the moment. Harrie’ broken but putting herself back together and Erik’s own cracks are glued over, shattered shards forced into the picture of the future he strives for.

 

 

He’s showering, rubbing thick layers of dirt from an intensive training day off his skin, scrubbing hard and fast because he is ready for eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. That’s when he notices the mark’s gone.

Erik freezes, breath trapped in his lungs as he stares and stares at his bare thigh but it’s not changing. An expanse of unmarked dark skin stretched over hard muscle. The lightning bolt, the squiggles and the Wakandan markings; it’s all fucking gone. He doesn’t even realise he’s dropped to sit on the shower basin’s floor, utterly forgetting that he’s in the communal showers of the barracks because his skin is fucking clear. No Soulmark and the only way they go away-

The only way they go away is if there’s no connection. If there’s no other side.

That little scrap of a white girl is dead.

Glass green eyes full of sorrow, the day her godfather died, flashes to the forefront of his mind. He’s seen enough dead bodies now to know the sheen they’ll have taken on but he still can’t quite picture it, can’t imagine those green eyes in that pale as fuck face. Shit, it’s the first time he’s looked at his thigh in hours; how long has the mark been gone? Shouldn’t he have felt something, anything if she died? Fuck, she might have been a whitey, might not have been what he asked for and sure as hell not what would’ve made him happy… but she was his. And now she’s gone, gone for who knows how long and he hadn’t even fucking noticed. It’s the basketball court all over again, so wrapped up in something he’s not even realised someone that’s pivotal to his life has been snatched away until he’d found cold, hard evidence. The dead body of his father. The missing soul-mark on his thigh. Fucking hell, he can’t even remember everything that was on it. Loss and survivor and orphan and fighter. But that’s a mere handful of the steadily cramping design that’s now gone. Fuck, he probably doesn’t even have a picture of it. He needs to know what happened. He can’t just continue to sit here wondering. Harrie- she’d been hunted, she’d mentioned it several times. Her enemy in power and beginning his massacre. But Erik doesn’t know shit about her little enclave, doesn’t know how to get there or how to traverse through it- he’s got fuck all to work with for tracking down her killer. And he will track him down. No matter what else she was, Harrie had been his. He’d been lumped with her from the start and he sure as fuck is done losing shit to bigoted fuckers. He’s gonna help his oppressed brothers and sisters. And then, once the dust settles on that, he’ll be gunning for Harrie’s killer next.

 

 

Two days pass by in a blurred haze. He goes through the motions, tears through his tests as if they aren’t even there, aces the latest combat training even though his mind is far from focused (he’s alone again in the world now, the bond gone, silenced. He’d never truly considered that Harrie could actually die, it just wasn’t a connection that’d ever been made in his mind). He kills eight people in two days, a bullet through the brain of each one, practical shots that don’t waste a second. Then he takes a stray bullet to the hip and has to get stripped for medical.

Of course, when he’s laid out on the paper-thin sheets of the operating table, one of the medics growls how his forms don’t match the Soulmark on his leg. Erik headbutts the nearest nurse in his haste to sit up. Sure enough, right where it’d once been, his leg’s no longer bare. A lot of the words are the same (there’s new additions too) but the shape’s all wrong. It’s not a lightning bolt no more, even though the squiggles are all similar and the Wakanda words are all present once again. Erik traces his fingers across the strange new design, ignoring the throbbing in his hip and the medics calmly telling him to lie back down. Some kind of circle in a triangle bisected by a line, the definitions of everything Harrie and Erik are forming the shape. He’s never seen it before in his life.

“Stevens! Lie down!” He finally looks up at the bark of his commanding officer, one hand still pressed firm against the soulmark. He can see they’re all itching to ask their questions, to demand answers from him. For the first time when they offer to put him under for a bit (some shit about extracting the bullet), he accepts.

 

 

He’s alone for a bit, but back in that meeting place. It’s still pretty bland, it’s still not possible to clearly pick out the surrounding shapes. Nothing’s changed. It could be a minute, it could be hours, but Harrie eventually joins him. She’s clean, the freshly bathed kind of clean. It doesn’t detract from the half healed cut that slices through her left cheekbone, utterly fails to hide the purpled bruise that mars the entire side of her right jaw. The jumper she’s wearing is several sizes too big, slipping fully off one shoulder and exposing a collarbone that juts out far too much to be healthy. On the run obviously means food isn’t exactly going to be in good supply but Erik hadn’t really been paying too much attention. He’d not paid the slightest bit of attention until the slap in the face that was a missing soulmark had happened. It’s not like it’s struck him with one true love or anything, but it is a fucking miracle that Harrie’s looking at him now, that she’s capable of looking at him and not staring out at the world through dead-glass eyes.

“Fuck-”

“I died and I came back.” Erik laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs; every damn shake of his stomach churning with bitterness and a kind of distant incredulity. She didn’t even let him finish his demand. Before he really knows what he’s doing, he’s gathered her up in his arms, pressing her face against his chest as one of his hands rest on at the back of her head, against her (too smooth, too silken for all that it’s messy) hair. She’s solid and real and so very not dead. He hadn’t even been expecting to be able to cradle her body as he’d done with his father. Maybe someday soon he’ll grow bitter over her ability to come back, why it was her and not his father to rise again. Right now he’s almost unable to believe he actually feels relieved to see her.

“This is new,” Harrie mutters against his chest, angling her face up to stare at him. She’s short as fuck, he’d not really clicked on just how short she is until he’s suddenly got her pointy white chin digging into his chest.

“Don’t get used to it,” Erik grumbles, releasing her just as swiftly as he’d grabbed hold of her. He doesn’t back up though, not willing to give any ground and neither, it seems, is Harrie. Even if tilting her head back to look him in the eye must hurt her neck at that angle.

“I don’t’ think I could ever get used to that,” Harrie mutters, running a hand through her hair. It’s shorter than before, sliced up choppy just below her jaw. It doesn’t look like it was a voluntary cut. “I got shit done.”

“Yeah, you did,” Erik agrees, checking the girl over but there’s no broken bones. Then again, who knows what shit magic can get up to. His father had always praised how Wakanda had advanced medical procedures, capable of healing bullet wounds in a day. Perhaps what he sees before him are little things that weren’t worth the effort of healing. “Fuck did you do to the mark.”

“…It’s a long story, old wizarding tales that aren’t actually tales but history,” Harrie mutters, stuffing one hand into the pocket of her jeans and looking away. There’s a decidedly uncomfortable look on her face and though Erik wants to push, he can feel himself starting to wake up. The medics, no doubt.

“Keep ya chin up, white girl.”

 

 

Later that night, when he looks upon the mark after waking, he finds there’s new additions. ‘Master of Death’ and ‘Conqueror’. Safe to say Harrie’s won then. Erik laughs, head shaking back and forth for a moment. Scrappy little white girl.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_“Sometimes, I wonder if you were tied to my son through my own actions.”_

_The Sky is purple here, a whimsical mist of curling lilacs and violets all intertwining with brilliant white. There’s a man, sitting by the window of the apartment, staring out with his back to her. Harrie doesn’t know him at all, but she can take a pretty solid guess who he is. Slowly, she makes her way over, taking in this room she currently resides in. It’s pretty far from upper-class; there’s African decorations that gives a clear indication of the owner’s background. She’s never been out of England, Harrie realises. She’s died, cut down by Voldemort’s own curse and even though there was so much she wanted to do with her life (see the world, see Hermione and Ron settle down together and get married, maybe even get to see Erik again), she can’t regret walking to her death. Not when it will get rid of the Horcrux. Neville’ll kill the snake and then anyone could take Voldemort down. She’s done her part, she’s fought and fought and fought. She’s got shit done, cleared the way and, even though she doesn’t want to, now she can rest. “Take a seat.”_

_“Thank you.” Harrie sits herself down on the couch, the man on the chair turning away from the colourful, capricious sky to look at her. She can see traces of Erik in him, little bits and pieces. Well, she did see her parents, did see Sirius and Remus before she dropped the stone. Perhaps it’s only right she sees the man who is clearly Erik’s father before she passes on. Does this mean his mother is still alive out there? She hopes so, hopes he’s not on his own. Hopes that the ‘orphan’ on her arm is for her and not him. A quick glance down shows the soulmark is gone but that’s not particularly surprising; they disappear when your other half dies. If she’s in the land of the dead and Erik is still living, it makes perfect sense that her arm is bare, that her scars are presented for the whole world to see._

_“I am Prince N’Jobu, of Wakanda.” Harrie’s eyebrows shoot up, sucking her lips in tight before she forcibly relaxes her shoulders and her expression._

_“Hariel Jamie Potter. I go by Harrie.”_

_“I know. I have been watching what I can,” Prince N’Jobu smiles, a small, sad little thing as he looks her over. He doesn’t seem particularly enthused by her, but he’s not showing the antagonistic behaviour Erik gave her from the start. Honestly, Harrie’s not sure where she stands at the moment. Or, well, sits. Then again, she’s dead. So why does she have to care about that._

_“Was it an interesting show?” That actually prompts a smile from the man, his eyes lighting up in the dark of the apartment._

_“Erik found my body, lying just over there,” N’Jobu states, gesturing to the stretch of carpet just behind the sofa she sits on. So, the apartment is where Erik lived as a young child? A quick glance around shows no family photos, the only evidence a child lives there an open threshold to a small bedroom. Harrie grew up in a household better off than this, but there had been no love for her. Erik grew up here, but it’s clear from his father’s eyes at least that there was love for him here. Jealously eats at her innards for a moment but Harrie pushes past it. She doesn’t begrudge Erik his father. She had Sirius, for however short a time that’d been._

_“If you’re a prince, why…” Harrie trails off, not quite sure how to voice her question, not without sounding incredibly rude. Given her current state, it’s not as if the chances of her running into N’Jobu are non-existent. She does hope she’ll be able to see her parents soon though._

_“It is a long story, one we do not have time for. The summary is that I witnessed the oppression of my people, people who did not have the ability or the means to fight back, and I made choices N’Jadaka suffered for.”_

_“N’Jadaka?”_

_“You know him as Erik, though his birth name is N’Jadaka.” Harrie hums, fiddling with her fingers. All the fight, all that bluster and determination is gone from her now. There’s no goal, nothing to strive towards. She’s dead, after all. There’s unfinished business, but not to the point where she can come back as a ghost._

_“Wait. What did you mean we don’t have time for it?” They’re both dead, they should have all the time in the world to sit around and share stories and Harrie… she wants to understand Erik. N’Jadaka. Whatever name he identifies with. He was supposed to be her soulmate, a person who could understand her like no one else in the world. Isn’t that what all the legends, all the stories and myths say?_

_“You have a choice, Hariel Potter. You can go back, or you can go on to whatever comes next. Remaining here, in this plane, is not in your best interests.” The purple sky reflects in N’Jobu’s dark eyes, a soul with his regrets, waiting around for something that Harrie can’t put her finger on._

_“You know, I don’t think Erik’s ever called me by name.”_

_“He will, one day.” N’Jobu drawls in a long, deep breath, his eyes sliding over her face before they did to the arm that once housed her soulmark and now boasts nothing but scars. It looks painfully plain, Harrie thinks. “I am abandoned here, Hariel Potter, through my own actions. N’Jadaka is lost out there and I fear that, should he ever make his way to Wakanda, he will not be welcomed. Not as he is. Yet, my brothers and sisters, the people who are not Wakandan, still need aid.” It’s an unasked question and Harrie’s not sure if she’s up to answering it. “The world needs to change and I am in no position to influence anything.” But she is. Swallowing, Harrie runs her hands up her arms, exhaling slowly._

_“He’s my soulmate. Whatever that means to us, what it means for us in the future, I can’t stop caring. Even if I’m not what he wants and he wasn’t what I was expecting.”_

_“Thank you.”_

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

“The fuck?” The owl, a tawny brown thing that does not belong in the far east, cocks its head at him as if he’s being the stupid one. Like he’s wrong for questioning why a bird is so far from its natural habitat. The thing hoots in his face, presenting one of its feet to him. There’s a leather cord clenched tight in one of its talons and Erik slowly accepts the offering(?) from the bird’s grasp. At the end of the leather thong, there’s a smooth slip of stone and a little note tied to the necklace. A note on genuine parchment. Erik flicks a quick glance back to the owl but it’s already high-tailing it away, soaring through the dry desert sky like it doesn’t have a care in the world. A quick look at his plate and Erik concludes the rat with wings has made off with his bacon. Fucking thing. Turning the stone talisman over in his hands (for that’s what it is), he rubs his thumb over the carving, a series of symbols he doesn’t recognise, barring one. The lightning bolt one; the exact shape his soulmark had been before Harrie went and did her Jesus shit.

‘ _It’s a lucky charm. Hopefully, it’ll keep you safe. -White Girl_ ’

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Travelling? Honestly, Harrie?” Looking up from her trunk, Harrie jams her wand into her back pocket, valiantly ignoring the ghost of Moody’s voice demanding she cease and desist with that habit immediately. Hermione leans against the doorframe, hair a mess of curls outlining her entire head. With those folded arms and that stern expression, Harrie feels like she’s been dragged before McGonagall. Should it really be Neville who’s gunning for a job at Hogwarts? “Were you even going to tell us you were leaving?”

“Of course I was!” Harrie snaps, slamming the lid of her trunk closed. A quick rap of her knuckles against the top of the wood has it shrinking down until it’s no bigger than her little finger. She scoops it up and pockets the luggage, twisting until she’s fulling facing her best friend now.

“Harrie, why?”

“Because there’s people out there I can help. I’m not one for politics and we both know it, Herms. I can leave everything here in your capable hands with the Order helping you. But I’m too active; I need to be at the heart of it all.” Flicking her eyes up to look at her best friend, Harrie runs a stressed hand through her hair, hearing the Sirius’ ghostly laughter, the proud proclamation ‘that’s a habit inherited right from James, that is’. “I’ll be back when you need a show of public support but… it’s not just muggleborns out there in the world that are getting oppressed. Just because the majority of the wizarding world wants to stick their head in the sand and only deal with their own, doesn’t mean I’ll follow their lead. I mean, when have I ever done that?” Hermione smiles, a shallow, small thing. All at once Harrie’s reminded of what exactly her friend has given up for her; the memories of the parents she’d loved so much, became one of the most hunted women in the country, the torture from Bellatrix, before Harrie had thrown herself under that bus instead. A bloated face to hide her identity or not, Bellatrix would never pass up the opportunity to torture someone who confessed to having a muggle soulmate. She’d never have found him, Harrie had rationalised, not when even she didn’t know where Erik was in the world. Additionally, Erik had been training, if not already fully inducted, in some kind of military fashion by that point., With pureblood ignorance, there was every chance Erik could’ve put a bullet through the insane bitch’s head before she even managed to fire off a spell. Not that it matters, given Harrie had run her through with Gryffindor’s Sword. Even if she’d managed to survive the stab, the basilisk venom would’ve made quick work of her.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Harrie.”

“Of course I do; all the money in the Black family vault is going to be spent helping those less fortunate get their feet under them. I can almost hear Sirius cheering me on.” At that, Hermione does crack a true grin, no doubt picturing the same thing as Harrie. Her godfather’s beaming pride, knowing hundreds of years of blood money was going right into helping muggles live a better life. Given the undertones that N’Jobu had hinted at regarding Erik’s (N’Jadaka’s?) past, Harrie cannot think of a more justifiable cause. With the profit money she gets from her shares in Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes going to aiding any muggleborns that required in, with the Order straightening out the Ministry, Harrie feels there’s no better time to skip town and country than right this moment.

 

 

She doesn’t start in Africa. It wouldn’t feel quite right, almost like she were trying to cut right to the heart of the problem without addressing all the little delicate issues. Harrie, no matter her attitude and her record, is not going to be a hammer to slam down on the issue. Not this time. This doesn’t require blunt force, it needs a delicate hand, patience and persistence. In this, she must be Neville; tending to a plant that’ll wither without her constant input. Instead, Harry heads west to South America. She finds little wizarding enclaves, shares her knowledge with them. She meanders through shanty towns, sees the poverty and the disease. The latter she can deal with, even if it means sneaking into homes at night to heal people on the down-low. The former… for the former, she reaches out back to the goblins. Relations are still tense, even though Harrie had made sure to proclaim to the papers the goblins had allowed her to steal something of Voldemort’s, that they’d played a critical role in his defeat and that she’d never have managed to pull everything off if they hadn’t been in on it. Just so the bank can save face, but the lie still leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. Soon enough, she owns fields, great big stretches of land where magical plants that can pass off as muggle are planted; every last one requires people to tend to them. Soon enough there are workers earning a living wage and the profit Harrie begins reaping from the goods she sells back to England is funnelled into another vault for the express purpose of aiding more people.

She sweeps through Brazil and Peru, heads on down through the countries until sea standing at the very edge of the South American continent. Then, she decides to start on the little islands that dot the seas around South America before she makes her way up to the next continent. She tires working on her tan but the English blueblood of her father runs true; there’s no sun kissed complexion to her skin and it is only through the power of magical skin-protection products that she doesn’t roast like a lobster. Being out here, seeing the world… it’s clear that humanity itself has a problem. There’s oppression everywhere; it can be found in every little thing and it’s never solely on the colour of a person’s skin. Harrie sees women humiliated for wearing skirts just a shade too short than thought acceptable by men who really shouldn’t get a say in how a lady dresses (she starts an argument with them), she stops two men from getting beaten simply because they love one another (she can hear the ghost of Uncle Vernon’s cruel rants, his racist and homophobic jokes that he’d thought appropriate for tea parties). It’s not just race human’s can find fault with, it’s gender and sexuality and thoughts and actions. It is as if people cannot simply appreciate individuality and freewill, the freedom to make your own choices and embrace what makes a person unique. Maybe it’s because she had so much more going on during her life than being able to look out of her small circle and acknowledge this, but Harrie feels a little sick with it all.

She sets up adult help centres to get people with poor opportunities jobs, she sets up community collage courses that allow a student to pay back their fees (and the only fees Harrie will allow is those that are non-profit) once they’re working. During this montage through South America and a few small islands, she has to make three reappearances in England to plug some changes to the law. All progressive changes that she agrees with utterly; better welfare for house-elves, equal rights for muggleborns, better rights for squibs. She pushes to keep the ball rolling, rallies the people and it almost comes easy now. Leading people through war is difficult; in companions, capitalising on that to keep the momentum of change rolling isn’t so bad. Especially now that she’s no longer on the run from Voldemort.

While she’s there, Hermione shoves a stack of letters into her arms, demanding she start popping back every-week or so to Grimmauld Place because her correspondence (that she’d not known to exist) was starting to pile up and making it difficult to open the door. Why Hermione was using the door and not the floo, Harrie couldn’t begin to guess but she meekly agreed to do so, if only to spare her best friend the horrors of bunking in a Grimmauld Place that went out of its way to cause the muggleborn problems. She sits and talks with the wild-haired witch on everything she is trying to accomplish and even if Harrie only manages to get the ball rolling, it may be enough. Flicking through the multitude of letter showcases that people are noticing; she had always left a written address wherever she’d managed to help her fellow human beings and apparently, enough people had noticed that they were now trying to track her. To the point she’s been invited to several upcoming charity balls. All the while, the addresser subtly fishes to find out where she’s getting this money. Harrie’s not too sure what to do about all of that for the moment though, so she pushes it off to a side and continues on with her world tour.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A head of black hair floats by in his peripheral vision as Erik’s going over the schematics of the upcoming training drill. It takes a second for his brain to actually register what he just saw and then he’s skidding to a stop, sentence cutting off halfway through a word as he swings around to stare. Sure enough, scrappy white girl Harrie is squatting down by the side of a building, listening very intently to the little boy that’s speaking to her. Erik’s pretty sure his jaw is hanging free; he can’t summon up the brain power to recall it back up to its assigned position. He’s not seen her since that first and last time, back in the front yard of the cookie cutter house. He’d said he wasn’t coming back and he’s remained true to his word. He sure as fuck didn’t expect to see her out and about in Puerto Rico of all places. Even though he sees her at least once a week in that meeting place, even though he knows all too well that she’s not that scrawny teenager anymore, it’s discomforting to be slapped in the face with it like this. She’s chosen to keep the choppy hair cut from her ‘on the run’ days, though the ends are evened out and it’s styled better. Her collarbones aren’t as razor sharp anymore, exposed by the wide collar of a plain cotton tee that’s a deep red against her pale skin. What’s more, her Soulmark is right there, same design as his, bared for the world to see. She looks good, he realises; healthier than he’s seen her before.

“No wonder you stopped,” Stead grunts, eyeing Harrie with clear appreciation. “Didn’t think white girls were your type though.”

“Shut your fucking mouth.” Stead flinches back at the venom Erik laces into his tone, even more so when he gives the other operative a once over, daring him to continue down that train of thought. White girls most certainly aren’t his type. Harrie, however, is his soulmate. Fucker doesn’t get to eye her like she’s a piece of meat when he doesn’t know how tough she is. Stead tries taking a cut outta her and he’s gonna be biting off a lot more that he can chew. Erik knows what the scrappy little white girl’s like. Stead can’t handle that. Leaving the idiot in the middle of the road, Erik stalks over to the duo. The child is the first to notice him; little boy twist ‘round to stare up at him with obvious fear in his face. Right up until Harrie’s hand comes down on his shoulder, giving the kid’s thin frame a comforting pat.

“I’ll be by later tonight, Jean. It’s a promise.”

“Thank you, Miss Harrie!” And the kid’s gone, scampering down the street as fast as his skinny little legs can carry him. Then Harrie’s looking at him with a bright smile on her face, one hand tucking several black curls behind her ear.

“Hello, Erik. It’s good to see you.” And she genuinely means it. He’s well aware Stead is still there with his eyes lingering on them, on him and on Harrie but to that fucker they’re two separate entities. It’s why Erik gathers her up in his arms and plonks his head down right atop hers. The white chin is still pointy as fuck in reality, digging into his chest again. A breath and then Harrie’s arms are coiling around his waist, offering a gentle squeeze before she retreats. Erik releases her and Harrie takes a step back, allowing him to continue assessing her. Cotton tee, denim skirt and smears of sun-cream cover her pale as fuck skin; she doesn’t even tan. Typical.

“What’re you doin’ here, white girl?”

“Travelling the world. Five months ago, I’d never even left England before. Now I’ve been up through all of South America.” She grins, all bright eyes and proud smiles, hands on hips with thumbs hooked into the pockets of her skirt. “And stop with the ‘white girl’ business. I don’t go around calling you ‘muggle’ all the time, do I? I’ve got a name and I’d be thrilled if you actually used it.”

“Nah, I ain’t takin’ no orders from a white girl, Shawty.” Harrie’s teeth grind and huh, seems like he’s touched a nerve there. She is hella short though, he could rest his arm on her head without having to really stretch up. The scar on her face doesn’t stand out as much as it once did; Erik’s pretty sure it’d always been red-raw around the edges whenever they met up prior to the soulmark change. But now it’s like a regular old battle wound. Just one she’s had for as long as he can remember. He knows there’s a few marks hidden under soulmark on her forearm but he’s not too sure on what kinda scars she boasts there.

“Who’s the bloke that’s eyeing me up like a turkey leg?” Twisting his head back around, Erik scowls at Stead; fucker still standin’ ‘round like Erik’s got nothing better to do than go over the same old shit with him. The training plan is hashed out, what more does he want? More importantly is questioning what the fuck just came outta white girl’s mouth.

“Like a turkey leg? This some fucked-up English slag?” Harrie grins, ruffling her hair, near dislodging the glasses that’re perched on the bridge of her nose. They’re ridiculous, all thin wire frames and delicate as fuck. Somehow, they still managed to suit her face perfectly; china doll looks, but he knows she’s a rag-tag doll on the inside; tough as fuck, all patched up and ready for more wear and tear.

“Turkey leg as in white meat?” Harrie gestures down at her body and, against his will, Erik finds a smile working its way onto his face. No, not a smile, an amused smirk. Who allowed her to start getting witty with him? He’s pretty certain he’d not authorised that. “Ignoring current company though, are you busy? Because I’ve some something I wanna talk to you about and it’s really best done in person.” Cocking an eyebrow, Erik considers her request. It’s clear chance they’ve run into each other; both of them have shit to be getting on with. Harrie’s up to fuck knows what (he clearly recalls the brat that’d just run off, the one she’d promised to visit later on) and Erik’s about to begin a week-long survival exercise that he’d gonna ace, just as he has all the others. What could possibly be worth his time and not be somethin’ that she could share in their usual meeting place? Something must show on his face for scrappy white girl pulls harder than she should on one lock of hair, curling it rather forcibly behind her ear. It’s something of a minor miracle it remains there.

“Look, Whitey-”

“It’s important, N’Jadaka.”

 

 

 

Thirteen years. It’s been thirteen years since he last heard that name, since someone had last looked him in the eye and called him that. Anger bubbles in his gut (that’s his name, his birth name and what the fuck kinda privilege does this whitey think she has to use it) but the shock dampens any kind of move he could make to express it. Consequently, he allows Harrie to lead him over to one of the few little cafes that are dotted about the town, allows her to order two drinks that he can’t even recall. Right now, he couldn’t’ care less if he’s given that boiled leaf juice that tires passing itself off as a decent solution to a hot-drink. What he wants to know is how. How the fuck does she know that name.

A coffee (black, with a small pot of milk and two sugar cubes presented on the saucer) is placed before him but Erik doesn’t so much as look at it once it’s down on the table. Instead, he sits and listens in a stony (numb) silence as Harrie explains. Explains her near (actual) death, a brief gloss-over why it is she could come back (some shit to do with souls that means nothing to him but apparently allowed Harrie to say fuck you to death) and what happened between that. He recognises the description of the ancestral plain (though why the fuck it took the form of what he can guess is his childhood home, Erik can’t even begin to guess) and it feels like he’s been punched in the chest when she describes the man she met there. Right now- he can’t even look at her. In some distant corner of his mind he knows she never asked to meet his father and it’s even a relief knowing his pops made it to the place Wakanda’s can apparently reach through some ritual or another. That doesn’t quell the supernova that’s about to go off in his stomach.

White girl recognises when she’s not wanted; she puts down the money for the drinks, picks hers up (to-go, she clearly expected having to make an exit after dropping that fucking bomb on him) and only hesitates for half a second, her eyes on his hand. Like she wants to give it one of those sympathetic squeezes that only occurs in shitty heart-warming movies. Real life don’t work that way though and she knows it.

Instead, he gets a quiet goodbye (one that he can hear the I’m sorry in) before she walks out the door.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to god, though I may respond to like, one or two, I read every last one of the comments you leave and they breath new life into me. So thanks for that; 's really keeping me going as a human <3


	5. Chapter 5

 

It’s fucking lucky he has a week to blow off steam, to tear through all the opposition in his survival training. Stead (fucking idiot that he is) makes the mistake of asking how it went with the pretty white girl, foolishly making himself into a welcomed target for Erik’s monumental fury. Breaking the fucker’s nose didn’t sooth any of his rage and only got him stuck with more chores as a smack on the wrist kinda punishment. He breaks two punching bags and damn near sprains his wrist so he gives up trying to work his anger out as a bad job. He runs instead, wears a hole right through one set of running shoes and has to fork out cash to buy a pair of shitty stand-ins until he gets leave to go back to Oakland and buy a new pair. All in all, it’s a shit time where he’s working towards his goal but sure as hell ain’t loving life. He doesn’t spot Harrie again, not during his time in Puerto Rico and they don’t meet up in the usual place either. Erik’s sure as hell not up to it, not sure he can even chance looking at her without his gut flipping out on him and he doesn’t’ wanna deal with that right now. Not on top of everything else. So, he soldiers on with it all. He’s not sure how long the scrappy little white girl sticks around, but he does notice some changes that can’t be coincidental. A college for adults, a sudden influx of jobs because some business decided to open up here growing and selling plants Erik doesn’t’ fucking recognise and both things funnel the vast majority of their profit into the local community. Hell, just before he leaves they’ve even created a little board of people in charge of conducting votes for how the money should be spent. Curious despite himself (s’not his business but Erik’s not afraid to admit he can be a nosy bastard when the mood strikes), he tracks the ‘owner’ of the land down, running head-first into more red-tap than he can be bothered to tangle with. Anyone tryna oppress these people that’re picking themselves up will have to go through all that to try and shut down the whole thing. Bastard deserve whatever’s lurkin’ at the other side of that mess.

Still, life goes on. Erik turns twenty-one, legal to drink in the US now. Not that it’d stopped him before but now he doesn’t have to hide that shit whenever he can get the chance to drag his ass home. Which he needs to do soon ‘cause these trainers are shit, ugly as fuck and ain’t half as comfortable as his previous pair. Yeah, he’s still not over it. Before he can get on with that, he ends up going on two more missions. Eleven more kills this time, eleven more scars. His whole forearm’s covered by this point, the raised bumps of his scarification markings creating a sweet ass texture that reminds him of every steps he’s taking is bringing him that much closer to his goal. The higher he climbs, the more they’ll trust him. The more they’ll trust him, the better his chances of finding that fucker Klaue, his ticket into Wakanda. Key from Pops or not, he’ll no doubt be better received with the head of that bastard in his hand.

“Stevens. There’s been a report of an Englishwoman running around with a matching mark to yours.” Teeth grinding, Erik flicks his eyes over to his commanding officer, slowly turning his head afterwards when it becomes clear the man has no intentions of dropping the subject.

“Yeah?”

“Giving out confidential information-”

“Nah, I ain’t givin’ no secrets away... Harrie’s travellin’ the world. Pure coincidence that she’s here right now.” And it is. She’d had no idea where he was, he’s been especially careful to not give away any exact locations during their usual meet and greets. Not that he thinks she’d dare invade his privacy by tracking him down like that. Girl’s chivalrous like that. To the point she’d saved sensitive information for when they met up in person. He’s still not sure how to feel on that so it’s pushed aside. He’s got shit to get done and clearly scrappy little white girl is off doing her own thing too.

 

 

There’s a republican doing some dodgy dealing on the side and the second he learns that lives (vulnerable black lives) have been taken because of this fucker? Yeah, Erik signs right up to be the one to do him in. Doesn’t matter that he’s threatening the safety of the free world with his shit, he already knows enough to understand that death’s almost too nice a punishment for the bastard. He’s given the limitations, his parameters; make it look like an accident, make it a clean job, get it done before the end of July. Erik’s content to wait until the very last day of July. It’s an easy thing and he settles for a car accident caused by a sudden onset of myocardial infraction. He’s got the drugs required on him to set that off, so really, it’s just a case of crashing the car. Cutting the breaks would be no good, that’s too messy to deal with and too easily tracked. Messing with the onboard electronics is so much more efficient and the evidence of such a thing is easy to erase. Pulling the fucker out the car, Erik pays no attention to the white fucker that cries and begs for his life. Throwing him into the middle of the country lane (god, you gotta love those country lanes and their ability to allow a person to be in the butt-fuck of nowhere, nobody to come an’ investigate suspicious screams and shit), Erik crouches beside the old bastard, taking in the thinning grey hair, the slight imprint of age lines on his forehead.

“’S funny, ain’t it? How our sins catch up to us? Did’ya really think someone won’t be comin’ for your ass when it got out?” Erik fires a grin at the ass; he’s not even bothered to commit this fucker’s name to memory. No way, no how, he doesn’t deserve to be remembered. Erik’s gonna add another marking to his arm though; one cracker erased from the world and it’ll be his pleasure to do it. He suckerpunches the guy the second he starts offering cash. Sure, Erik’s no fat cat, he’s always hurting for cash no matter how much he earns (he’s got so much to do that he’s always burning through that green) but he’d not accept this fucker’s money if he were the last paying customer on earth. Not when it’s cash made off the backs of his brothers and sisters.

“P-please-”

“Nah, see, that’s not how this here’s gonna work. Tonight, you die. ‘S just a shame I ain’t got time to take my pound of flesh outta ya before you gotta kick the bucket.”

It’s over quickly after that, a quick injection into the arm over an old IV wound; barely noticeable and with the specialist wipes the Black Ops unit has offered for the job, it’ll scab over within the minute. Just enough time for the heart attack to set in.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hair swept up into an appropriately styled classy updo, Hariel Potter takes one last look in the floor-length mirror. It’s no different than wearing a robe, the length that is; the dress stops just before her ankles begin, a floaty pale pink that swirls a half second after she twists. Vintage, real vintage, the kind that’d’ve have Aunt Petunia frothing at the mouth had she ever gotten to seen it. Especially on Harrie. She can only imagine what Petunia would think should she tune into the coverage of the charity ball the BBC are covering, how her aunt would react to spotting Harrie among those invited.

“Are you sure about lending this to me?” Peering up from jewellery she’s sorting through, Queenie Kowalski peers up at her and smiles. It’s a soft, delicate thing that has Harrie fighting back a blush in the face of the natural legilimency. She still can’t believe Dumbledore and, well, almost every other wizard in Britain thought Voldemort was the pinnacle of legilimen. Queenie has the bastard beat by a landslide.

“Of course, dear. All it does is sit in my wardrobes and none of my granddaughters would be caught dead in my old clothes. They’ve very on board with the latest fashions.” Harrie snorts, rolling her eyes and flicking Queenie an appreciative grin.

“They’re fools then. Thank you for letting me camp out in your living room, I really appreciate it.”

“How could I possibly turn you away, Harrie-sweetie? Another Brit with a tendency to get as neck deep in trouble as Newt?” She grins back and the expression strips years off her. Not to say that Queenie Kowalski is looking old; she certainly looks about forty years younger than she should. By Merlin, Harrie hopes she ages half as gracefully as what the woman before her has done. “Don’t stay out too late, dear. I’m more than willing to share a few more stories.”

“War stories exchange? Count me in, Mrs Kowalski.”

 

 

She’s not been in America (the Northern one) all too long, but Kreacher had ensured the invitation for one of the high-society events had reached her (even if he’d held the muggle invite out to her with a pliers). Ensuring her oversized purse fits just right in her grasp, allowing for quick access to the wand stored within, Harrie begins making her way down the stupidly large carpet they’ve rolled out for events, making sure to smile for the cameras that’re pointed in her direction. Some are ridiculously large, a news-reporter standing before them and addressing the device; Harrie makes extra sure to smile into the camera for that one. Just on the off chance her aunt is watching. Making her way up the steps, Harrie eyes the grand entrance, decked out with an overly flora arrangement that doesn’t look like it should exist outside of the magical world. The amount of time the muggles must have spent weaving that together. Still, she sucks in her gut and drums up her Gryffindor courage. She’s here because there’s a great load of bigwigs here. She’s hear for them, to try and get them to invest in the Sirius Black Foundation. She’d decided to name it for her godfather, knowing in her bones he’d be pleased to see the Black money invested in the less fortunate. She can all but hear him cheering her on right now, probably demanding she milk as much cash as she can from the upper-crust of society. The muggle-world will be good practice for when she goes to try and squeeze the remaining pureblood families for money. The Wizarding World is still trying to get back on its feet, after all.

She dances. It’s not usually Harrie’s thing, but small talk is made around the wine table and on the dancefloor. The last thing Harrie needs is to be arrested by MACUSA for drunk and disorderly behaviour of the wizarding kind. The American obliviators must be very efficient at their job, given the sheer amount of country they have to police. So, dancing it is. Right now, she’s being spun around by a man old enough to be her father, if not her grandfather, and already his eyes have strayed further down her body than they should have done. Given how tight she’s found his purse-strings, Harrie wants out, quite frankly.

“Mind if I cut in?” It’s posed as a question but it sure as hell isn’t one and Harrie lets out a sigh of relief, the stranger sweeping her out the ass’ hands and across the room. “Now, you’re very pretty, don’t get me wrong, but are you even of age?”

“I just turned nineteen, thank you very much, and I’m not here schmoozing up to oil-slicks like that because I want a sugar daddy.” Her new dance partner chokes a little in the back of his throat and though his breath smells of alcohol, his eyes are bright and aware. Harrie doesn’t relax, as it were, but she does find the fact he isn’t blatantly staring at her (admittedly modest) chest. Queenie’s dress is probably helping issues there; it’s cut to flaunt anything it finds. Harrie dearly hopes the elderly woman will allow her to raid her wardrobe again someday. Her grandchildren are missing out. “I’m here to try and wrangle cash outta their hands for charity.”

“Oh ho? And you’ve not tried shaking me down yet? As the richest man in the room, I’m offended.” Harrie’s eyebrows shoot up, gaze trailing over the man (mid-thirties, brown hair and brown eyes, the face isn’t ringing a bell but, then again, few muggle ones do) before she ends up looking him dead in the eye again.

“I’ve no idea who you are.”

“Of course you don’t, what are they teaching you in school these days?”

“The laws of equivalent exchange.”

“You’re, you’re joking, right?” Moneybag’s cocks an eyebrow at her and Harrie just grins back, refusing to give the game away. “Oh, that’s precious. Tony Stark, nice to meet you, kid.”

“I’m hardly a kid, Mr Stark. Name’s Hariel Potter.” Stark grins and they give a final spin as the music dies, ready for the different people to get up and given their speeches on their charity and why they should donate to the worthy cause. Half of them Harrie grits her teeth at; it’s clearly all about public face for some, attaching their names to ‘helpful’ causes that they present with only lacklustre research. There’s no halfway point either. There are people on the flip side of the coin who are incredibly invested in what they’re doing. Harrie can only hope she’s one of them.

 

 

 

Groaning, Harrie drops into their meeting space and, even though she’s not in her physical body, eagerly kicks of her heels. There’s phantom aches from being balances on those slender stilettos for so long and her calves are killing her.

“Tony Stark, huh?”

“Good day to you too, Erik.” Laid out in what she’s come to assume is his army (SEALs, navy?) gear, her soulmate doesn’t so much as cock his head back to glance at her, instead stretched out with his arms folded behind his head and looking as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Watching the news, wherever you are?” He hums, the noise low and distant and Harrie closes the distance between them, seating herself a forearm’s length from the soldier.

“Watching you vamp it up with some white fucker?” Sneering, Erik twists his head to actually look at her now, the muscles in his neck tense and Harrie jolts slightly.

“You make it sound like I found a guy who’s gotta be my dad’s age attractive. You know, if my dad were alive, that is.” Harrie snorts, drawing her legs up to rest her crossed arms atop her knees. The glance she shoots Erik is near scorching or, at least, she hopes it is. Man’s made of stern stuff because he doesn’t flinch, no matter how satisfying it’d be to see it (she’ll probably never see that).

“I betcha don’t know a thing ‘bout Stark, do ya? Well he’s the mastermind of the weapons industry. He creates the bombs that’re used by the good ol’ USA to oppress people who ain’t got the tools to defend themselves.” Erik lifts his sleeve, scratching at his elbow and Harrie catches a glimpse of raised bumps on his skin. She’s never seen anything like them before and they’re clearly intentional, the placement of each one too much like a systematic pattern to be anything but. What do they represent?

“Well, I managed to weasel a million dollars outta his hands and into my back pocket and that’s gonna be used to help those oppressed people,” Harrie concludes shortly, eyes still lingering on Erik’s arm as he draws his sleeve back down.

“Don’t stop the oppression though, does it? You’re reacting instead of pre-emptive striking, white girl.” Drawing her lower lip back between her teeth, Harrie toys with the flesh, meeting Erik’s burning gaze.

“What else can I do? To stop it all before it begins is impossible an impossible task, short of taking over the whole world and something tells me you wouldn’t approve of that.”

“Only thing worst than a white woman running the world would be a white man running the world,” Erik states firmly, rising into a straight-back sitting position.

“Educating people, opening eyes, that’s a little more in line with my morals. Lucky you, you don’t have to worry about a white woman dictating your life, Erik.”

“Tch, like I’d ever give you an inch, Shawty.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan to go start sorting my classroom out tomorrow, so I'm very excited for that. Hopefully I'll be able to get something together quickly, though I've got days and days set aside for it.


	6. Chapter 6

 

“… course, my King.”

Hunched in one of the looming balconies and half hidden behind the thick drapery of the curtain, Prince T’Challa of Wakanda does his very best to breathe quietly, all the while pushing aside the awkward sensation of feeling like a child once again. It has, after all, been a very long time since he dared to try eavesdropping on Baba. However… however he’d heard the words ‘prince’ and ‘soulmark’ and hadn’t been able to help himself. Not when the information was clearly (surely?) pertinent to him alone. It doesn’t stop the thundering of his chest over the concept of being caught which is utterly ridiculous, he’s the Black Panther now, the protector of his people. Yet, the nostalgia of childhood mischief (and the slime-like sensation of guilt) still persists. Senses straining, T’Challa listens to the fading footsteps of his father and the unexpected War Dog leave the room. While the chances of his… spying being discovered are decreasing, should his heartrate not be following the same pattern? Yet, even when he is sure the room is empty, it takes a fair while longer for his pulse to settle. Flipping over the edge of the balcony, T’Challa lands on the tiled floors, the suit taking most of the impact and allowing only the slightest sound to accompany his descent. The papers are still out on the desk (not unusual, given the technology available in the outside world, the War Dogs cannot go around brandishing Kimoyo Beads at their targets) and he not quite hurries over but doesn’t waste any time to begin snooping about. There’s several pictures, the images clearer than anything T’Challa knows the outside world can produce but not on Wakanda’s level. Several close-ups of a pale forearm and the dark, ink-like marks scrawled across it. Some T’Challa doesn’t recognise (which is odd for soulmarks imprint and evolve in languages that those involved consider a pivotal point of their identity) but the others he most certainly does. It’s Wakandan writing, markings he recognises all too well. It’s his mother tongue and there is, without question, ‘prince’ scrawled downwards, near the centre of the mark. For a second, T’Challa seriously considers the fact that he may quite possibly be in one of those incredibly rare triad pairings. It’s an imbecilic thought; the design does not match his or Nakia’s in the slightest and he feels foolish for even considering it. Almost as stupid as remaining in this room to be caught. T’Challa shuffles through the papers swiftly, copying them onto his Kimoyo Beads before scampering from the room. He needs to get the suit back before Baba notices he’s finished his training for the day but not yet returned it.

 

 

He doesn’t get to look at his stol… borrowed images until later that night. He spends three hours babysitting Shuri while their parents attend a meeting with the tribe elders. Shuri who’s consuming physics and mathematics books that T’Challa hadn’t touched until he was twice her age. Maybe even older than that. There’s nothing more daunting that a younger sibling that’s turning out to be smarter than you. He’s positive the little menace will be causing him all sorts of trouble in the future and T’Challa grins at the thought. Still, when night has fallen, Shuri has been tucked into her bed (and he’s retrieved what he’s relatively sure is the entirety of her stolen goods; a soldering kit and chip-board, along with all sorts of other technology she’s started playing around with recently) with no chance of her not sleeping, he finally falls back onto his own mattress and brings up the images. The War Dog, whoever it was, has been efficient. However, there is a clear gap in information that will undoubtedly make Baba nervous. Especially when she has a Wakandan mark. They have accepted outsiders before, but only ever those with a soulmark and the secrecy of what Wakanda truly is has always been kept. But there’s never been an outsider with ‘prince’ in her marking.

“I am Wakanda’s only prince,” T’Challa states but even as the words leave his lips, the strength behind them is shaky at best. Soulmark do not lie. Prince is the male terminology, a title, and the woman (Hariel Potter) had been born female. The birth certificate is there in the War Dogs reports. But T’Challa has no brothers. The only other prince would have been prince N’Jobu but he had disappeared on a War Dog assignment in America. He can remember the funeral they’d had recently when he had been declared dead in absentia; there’d been no body. Besides, he recalls his uncle’s soulmark, remembers the English script that had been on it. Whatever these squiggly lines are, they are not English. Flicking through Wakanda’s database yields no results; only an ancient stone tablet in India that boasts the same markings. No one has ever deciphered them. Lips purse,d T’Challa returns his attention to the words he can understand. There’s Prince, of course, but some of the others are… peculiar. What could ‘Master of Death’ possibly mean? A quick search comes up with old English folk-laws, passed down through families. Something to do with a ‘Peverell brothers. It all means nothing to him.

The night wears on and the more time that passes, the more time T’Challa becomes convinced he is not Wakanda’s only prince. There are two discomforting conclusions. One; his own father has another son out there somewhere. That one is the least likely. Option two… Uncle N’Jobu had a child. It’s not outside the realm of possibility, it’s fairly obvious now. The only question is why N’Jobu never brought his child to Wakanda. Something isn’t adding up, something is wrong and T’Challa needs answers. Another quick search on Hariel Potter yields no known soulmate, so either she has yet to meet his relative or they have not yet gone public. However, her charity does have a mailing address. It has been a long time since T’Challa has written a letter and it’s certainly a first for him to be writing one to an outsider. None the less, he quickly sources a pencil and paper, scrambling to recall how to begin.

 

‘ _Dear Miss Potter,_ ’

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He’s not on a mission this time. Instead, it’s in the dining hall, listening to one of Stead’s mates natter on about his vacation that he’s enjoyed (no doubt with obvious embellishments but Erik can’t be fucked to analyse the conversation to figure out just what is truth and what isn’t) when the pain tears through his chest. Erik chokes, one hand digging into the material of his shirt, clawing at his chest while the other curls into the table-edge.

“-rik! Erik!” Fuck. He knows what a bullet feels like, knows how a gunshot wound forms on the body. He’s had a slug dug out of his thigh before, had that one that skimmed his hip. Sure as hell he ain’t had one through the chest before and when his hand comes away dry as a bone, it becomes obvious this isn’t his pain in the slightest. Shoving himself back and away from the table (fuck, it can’t be happening again, it can’t), Erik snatches the hem of his trousers and forces them down on one side, enough to expose his thigh and the fading top of a soulmark. Fading. The fuck’s it doing, fading like that.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he hisses out, the phantom ache of a bullet wound in his chest (left side but it’s too far left to be a heart shot, too high to have hit a lung unless there’s something fucked up with Harrie’s biology) and the withering ink of a soulmark against his fingers. It waivers for a moment and then blooms, darkening once again until back to the usual solid black, stark even against his dark skin. He watches as one of the squiggles mutates, twisting until it settles into the new design; Harrie’s shitty indistinguishable language offering no clue as to what the fuck just happened. Why the fuck she’s just been shot.

“Bloody hell, that’s a close call.” Erik tears his pants back up, shooting an acidic glare Finner’s way before he twists on heel, storming out of the cafeteria. Is this his life now? He tries getting on with his shit, only to be interrupted by Harrie almost dying. At least this time he’d felt the pain, you know, like you’re supposed to when you have a strong soul connection. He’d hated that fact at the start, that they were part of the ten percent to have access to a meeting place, that they’d feel the other’s life-threatening injuries. Hell, he still hates it. But at least now he’s got some idea of what she’s doing, even if it is only that she’s endangering her life. Fucking hell, this blows.

 

 

It takes three hours for it to come up on their system. The Black Ops keep track of their operatives’ soulmates and once they’d had Erik’s soulmark on record and Harrie had decided to go frolicking about in high society, the computers would have been following her. Three hours and ten minutes later, Erik’s commanding officer (not for long, he’ll be getting his own team soon, he’s just too good at this) tracks him down and imposes leave on him. ‘Parently a soulmate recovering from a near fatal gunshot wound warrants four days of leave when said soulmates know each other. He has Stead to thank for informing the Ops of that and he will thank him. Next time they spar, Erik’ll make it abundantly clear just how ‘thankful’ he is.

Consequently, fourteen hours from the incident finds Erik standing outside a hospital room in mother-fucking Zuckerberg San Francisco General Hospital and Trauma Center. Because of course she managed to get shot so close to (not) home. Why would he ever expect anything else of Harrie? Rolling his eyes, Erik stalks into the room and does his damn best to ignore the fact they’ve slotted her in a private room. Of course they have; she’s been spotted cosying up to the likes of Stark and all the other rich assholes (though, admittedly, Stark’s at least tryna do something about all his shit, what with the whole Ironman lark he’s got going on; probably pales in comparison to what Wakanda could do though and that’s what has Erik’s innards burning). Of course they put her in a private room; they know she can pay for it, after all. Dropping into the seat by her bed, Erik’s pack hits the floor by his feet, legs stretched out. He’s been awake for too fucking long and hadn’t been arsed to bother with the hospital staff. Instead he’d snuck in right under their noses, stalking down the corridor and evading the gaze of healthcare professionals with ease. A quick look at Harrie’s charts shows no-one will be coming to check on her until oh-five-hundred and by that time it’ll be visiting hours for the rich and privileged. Not that he’d be going anywhere if they tried to turf him out. He checks her over, taking note of the cheap ass hospital gown and its utter failure to hide the fat bandage that undoubtedly covers Harrie’s wound, exposed by the low neckline’s wide collar. There’s an IV in her right arm, pumping the good stuff into her veins. The left is free, skin paler than Erik’s ever seen it (and that’s saying something). Fuck, it almost matches the white of the bedsheet. Slouching forwards until his forearms are resting on the cheap-ass mattress (posh ward or not, why bother with quality supplies if they’re probably only gonna get soiled, right?), he works one hand around her wrist, fingertips finding the pulse-point. It’s strong. Though he wants to know why the fuck she even let a bullet get anywhere near her. Ain’t she capable of magicking it out of existence or some shit like that? Those fucking dark smudges are under her eyes again. She’s supposed to have got rid of them when that shit war of hers ended. Grumbling, Erik lays his head in the cradle of his arms, Harrie’s pulse still thrumming up from the pads of his fingers. Just a quick nap.

 

 

A quick nap turns into a six-and-a-half-hour sleep rudely interrupted at oh-five-hundred-and-twelve (they’re running late) by the surprised scream of a nurse. Erik jostles into a semi-state of alertness, hand reaching for a gun before his mind shifts into high gear, alert and ready.

“Naw, you need to calm down, Shawty’s mine,” Erik drawls out, tapping at the soulmark that’s exposed on Harrie’s wrist, “how else ya think I knew she was here?”

What follows is a piss poor interrogation of how he got in the building (some nurse with blond hair), how he knew where Harrie’s room was (he was led there) and proof of his soulmate status (here he’d actually not had to lie, instead just peeling off trousers that he’s been wearing for too long anyways. After that, they leave him alone, the nurses occasionally sending him wary looks as they top up Harrie’s cocktail of drugs. Plus point that comes out of Harrie’s undoubtedly expensive room; the en suite. A chance to shower after too long working out, followed by a meal in the mess hall then an eight-hour flight. The sweat is swiftly scrubbed from his form and Erik tries not to think too hard on the fact he’d woken up with his fingers curled around Harrie’s wrist, forefinger still searching out for that sure pulse.

Upon returning to her room, Erik rifles through the new papers, inspecting the get-well card that’s appeared on the bedside table with he huge bouquet of flowers. His snooping helps with his understanding of the event. Apparently a mugging Harrie hadn’t been able to ignore; she’d gotten between the gun-slinger and a seven-year-old child.

“Stupid scrappy white girl,” Erik huffs and it’s not even got any malice this time. Just bone-tired weariness. How the fuck is he supposed to keep ignoring this girl when she’s off risking her life for children, off sticking her nose in places and helping people? She’s fucking ridiculous and undoubtedly knows it. A backstory that grates too closely to his own; murdered parents, fighting again oppression, an outsider to her own culture. Scowling, Erik lifts Harrie’s hand, inspecting the barbaric carvings on the back; ‘I must not tell lies’. He doesn’t have a fucking clue why that’s there, other than as a by-product of torture from her war. She’s been through some shit. Barking out a rough laugh, Erik runs his thumb over the words, that dull, ever-present rage bubbling away. There’s fuckers out there that still think it’s acceptable to torture people, to torture children because, fuck it, that’s what Harrie’d have been when she got this.

A nurse brings him a sandwich up from the cafeteria, the wetness to her eyes a clear indication they remind her of some couple she knows. That or she feels empathetic; to anyone looking in he probably does seem like a worried lover or some shit like that. He’s too fucking tired to even bother tryna dispute that conclusion. He just wants Harrie to wake up so he can needle her into not doing that again.

 

 

His time comes soon enough, a whole thirty-two hours after she’s been shot. Erik suspects visiting hours have been over for a while now but clearly no one’s got enough guts about them to try turfing him outta here. Not that he’d let ‘em. Her arm moves before the rest of her, fingers reaching down to graze against his own, her brow crinkling in confusion. Near translucent eyelids peel back and those green as fuck eyes hazily focus on him, sharpening up with ever breath she takes.

“Erik?”

“You expectin’ anyone else, Shawty?” She huffs, eyes fluttering closed again and then her fingers are working their way between his, gripping tight. He could break her hold, could easily slide his fingers outta her grasp without much effort at all. He doesn’t.

“Not really. Just surprised. Good surprised though.” She grins, not a flash of teeth but a wide stretch of her lips, looking pleased as punch. It’s irritating as fuck.

“Damn it, whatchu want me to do, carry you ‘round in my pocket all the damn time? ‘Cause you’re always gettin’ injured!” Harrie jostles at his sudden snap, swinging her head round to stare with those bright eyes deer in a headlights style.

“Of course not! That’d be ridiculous, It’s just nice seeing you care.”

“Care?” Erik numbly parrots. In response, Harrie squeezes the hand still in her grasp and Erik hastily extracts it. But, fuck it all, he does care. She’s scrappy as fuck and this little firecracker that got hurt protecting a seven-year-old brat. If everyone’d been like her, sticking their noses it but helping, always helping… Shit might not be so bad. He can’t say for sure. Harrie’s hand snakes across the bed, catching his own, palm over his knuckles and fingers curling around to rest atop gun-grip-callouses. She’s so fucking white and that just throws it all into contrast more. He still cradles the tips of her fingers with his own. He’s not gonna think about this shit, not now. There’s still people being oppressed, that’s not changed since his Pops last wrote in his journal. Wakanda’s still not out there helping their brothers and sisters. Just because he was born on the outside, Erik was forced to remain there, well aware of his homeland’s capabilities but unable to benefit from there. Open to all the suffering that was occurring. Aware that the man who put panther claws in his Daddy was still out there. Is still out there, unaccountable for the murder he committed.

He wants justice, he wants his people to no longer be oppressed just ‘cause their skin’s dark.

He doesn’t know what the fuck he wants when it comes to Harrie.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

Harrie’s discharged early the next day and Erik still has two days of leave that he doesn’t know what he’s going to do with. For the second night in a row he’d parked his ass in the hospital, utterly unwilling to move (otherwise known as a point-blank refusal to fork out cash for a hotel room when Harrie’s got a perfectly good private room here). For a moment he considered the potential of shuffling her over on the bed so he could get a half decent nap, but a quick fondle of the mattress had him reaching the conclusion he’d be better off on the floor. He’s grown too used to the army cots or the hard floor and even cheap ass hospital beds are too soft to drop off in without prior prep. So Erik nicks one of Harrie’s pillows (she throws him one) and he doesn’t feel a spit of guilt about it because she’s got them in excess. There’s a blanket in his own pack (always be prepared) and he’d set up shop pretty darn quick after that. The only issue with the whole thing is how the nurses coo over them when morning swings ‘round, apologising for the lack of beds (influx of patients or some shit like that) and acting as if he an’ Harrie are some kind of pairing to aspire towards which just shows they don’t know shit. None the less, Harrie’s all ready to go, a handbag with her shit tucked under one arm (Erik’s stubbornly ignoring the blood splattering up the side that the nurses haven’t quite been able to wipe away) and a bottle of painkillers in the other hand. She’s still a little shaky on her legs, muttering unsavoury under her breath about muggles and their drugs which he finds amusing in a dark sorta way. After all, it was those drugs that’d saved her life. Shouldn’t her people have something to heal her up though? Why the fuck hadn’t she used that? Side-eyeing the girl from the corner of his eye, Erik watches her stumble again and, begrudgingly, he loops his arm through hers, forcing her to wrap it ‘round his back while he plants his own hand on the hip furthest from him.

“Don’t you dare faint.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, dear.” Erik jolts at the endearment, scowling down at Harrie who just grins, all cheek and bright eyes. Scrappy little white girl.

“You got somewhere to stay?”

“I paid for a hotel room for a week. You’re welcome to bunk for a few nights, I’ve got a few things to give you.”

“Shit like that lucky charm of yours?” He wouldn’t say no to another of those; thing had blocked a bullet a few months back and not even been dented for the effort. It’s no vibranium armour but it serves its purpose, that cannot be argued against.

“As useful as, hopefully.” Humming, Erik loops one thumb through the hoop of Harrie’s jeans, hefting her up a bit from where she’d been sagging to one side. She ends up near slouching into his chest instead and while that’s preferable to her dropping to the floor of the hospital lobby, it’s hardly optimal for transport. Throwing all hope of preserving the distance between them away, Erik twists and catching Harrie by the back of her legs with one arm, the other rising to her shoulders and he hefts her up into his arms. Well, not even hefts.

“Fuck, you eat anything at all, Shawty?” Harrie scowls, thumping him once on the chest but she’s got no build-up and a shitty angle; it barely hurts at all. Erik counts three women that stare longingly after them, one even flicking the man she’s with the point them out. Yeah, he’s aware they probably look like some kind of fairytale, some brat’s storybook romance and he can’t even be bothered to dismay the notion. “You least got some magic shit to fix the hole in your chest?”

“Yeah, I’ve got some potions on me but I couldn’t exactly crack them out where the muggles were watching, could I? Last thing I need is MACUSA coming down on my head like a hammer.” Erik don’t know shit about the magical world Harrie lives in, other than she’d been fighting against the oppression of people like her mother. Even he can conclude that this ‘MACUSA’ is some kind of governing body, however.

“Just gimme the address.”

 

 

By the time the taxi pulls out outside the hotel (ritzy but then Harrie’s cultivated a reputation nowadays, he’s been following her tracks through high society in his down-time in addition to checking up on the Sirius Black Foundation and its progression, not that he’d ever admit it aloud), Harrie’s managed to get her wits about her. That or she’s flushed out the majority of the hospital’s drugs and is putting off her next dose of painkillers in favour of getting some magic shit inside her. No one comments on her additional company as they make their way to the elevator; it’s a short ride to Harrie’s room. Erik drops his bag by the door, arms stretching up the ceiling as he eyes the large glass window. It’d be hella easy to take a pot-shot at Harrie from outside. That is unless she’s magicked the glass; can she do that? She should be able to; surely magic has got to have some advances to it, compared to ‘modern’ society. Wakanda has glass with vibranium, he recalls., There’d been a story his father had told him that centred around unbroken glass but for the life of him, Erik can’t remember it. Not without the whitewash of Cinderella invading his mind, anyway.

“Make yourself at home, the couch, as you can see, is huge and the bathroom’s through there.” Flicking her hand in the general direction of the western wall, Harrie ambles over to the bedside cabinet and jerks it open. There’s a clink of glass and then she’s downing one vial, uncapping a second once she’d done while her other hand peels the bandage from her shoulder, wide-collared shirt shuffled to a side for ease of access. Sticky fingers paw at the inflamed red skin and Erik watches in fascination as the wound begins to slowly knit itself back together, stitches remaining in unbroken flesh. A quick twist of her wand and they’re gone too. Good as new. Fuckin’ magic. Peeling the hoodie off, Erik dumps it atop his bag, striding towards the sofa and dropping onto the fabric. A flash of pale skin to his right catches and draws his eyes as Harrie wriggles out of her own shirt, shoving it into a basket he presumes is set up for laundry. Like this he can see the lacework of scars that decorate her form; the abundance on her arms, the spike-like pattern across a shoulder-blade, another lightning bolt laceration resting just above her left breast, and, of course, the latest addition of a bullet-shaped wound that’s now nothing more than shiny white scar tissue.

“Ay, how long you plannin’ on stayin’ in Cali now, Snowdrop?” She’s white as fucking snow, even if California will never have a white Christmas in his lifetime. Not unless humanity really fuck up the climate and, given history, Erik wouldn’t quite put it past them.

“I’ve got four more days here, then I’m moseying on down towards Malibu. Stark’s throwing a New Year’s party and I’ll be once again trying to fill my charity coffers with the money of bored millionaires.” Snatching up a new shirt and pair of jeans from the walk-in, Harrie goes about rummaging through another cabinet afterwards, hand emerging with a flash of thin red fabric that catches Erik’s attention for a split second. “I’d really appreciate it if you’re willing to stick around for a talk after I’ve scrubbed the hospital off of me.”

The second Harrie’s in the bathroom and the shower starts up, Erik’s digging through the entire room. There’s an old-style trunk (right outta a period drama kinda trunk) that’s deeper than it should be when he opens it. He vaguely recalls Harrie nattering on about some kind of sport played on brooms which explains the sleek as fuck broomstick in there. The cabinet with the glass vials has several different varieties within it, all with interesting different labels. The most interesting find is perhaps the silvery cloak in the walk-in that turns him invisible when it’s wrapped around his shoulders, leaving a floating head. Invisibility cloak; if he didn’t know Harrie’d notice it was missing instantly, he’d probably have tried to borrow that. She’d probably be pretty pissed if he cut it up and fashioned it into a stealth suit too; wasn’t it her father’s or something? Ruminatively he hangs it back up, stalking back into the main room and dropping onto the bed itself after toeing off his boots. Comfy as fuck; there’s no way he’d be able to sleep on this. The couch it is.

Just as he’s reclining back, hands pillowing the back of his head and legs stretched forwards and crossed at the ankle, the bathroom door opens and releasing a billowing mist of steam. Hair twisted up in a towel turban and clad it some kinda sports jumper, Harrie flounces into the room, rubbing some of that beauty-cream shit into her face with big casual circles of her fingers. It’s by the far the most domesticated thing he’s seen from a woman and it’s fucking uncomfortable to watch. Dropping onto the bed (and it barely shifts with her weight), Harrie frees her hair from the towel, furiously rubbing at the half-curls before that too goes flying for the laundry bin.

“So, what are we? I mean, I know we’re soulmates but what kind of soulmates are we? Because I want a relationship, a romantic one, and if you’re not willing to give me that then I’m happy to go elsewhere.” The fuck. Staring, at the woman, Erik forces his muscles to relax, irritated they’d even tensed at all. Sure it’s a bit of a surprise she’s brought it up; they’ve known each other for near eight years now, they’ve both been through some shit, but not once has this ever come up in conversation. Not once has Erik ever really thought on it, barring the whole cursing the fucked-up fates that he’d ended up with Harrie way back at the start. She’s not terrible, that must be admitted. She’s a fighter and, pained as he is to admit it, if he’d ended up with anything else he’d probably have been disappointed or grown bitter. It’s fucking painful to look at things and admit that, if given the chance, he wouldn’t swap Harrie out for a black soulmate. But where that leaves him with that question-

“You think I find you attractive?” Erik laughs at the very idea, watching as two red spots bloom across Harrie’s cheeks and her shoulders tense, eyes narrowed. Fuckin’ cat eyes and she looks just as offended as one of those household felines can get.

“I don’t know what to think. You made your opinions pretty fucking clear when we first met in person, but then I get shot and suddenly you’re swinging by on leave to see me? You get aggressive with your friend when he’s checking me out in Puerto Rico? Is it literally because I’m white?” Each fucking truth strikes like an arrow and Erik just can’t lie back and take it anymore. He doesn’t shoot up into a sitting position, it’s more a smooth transition, exactly how the imagination of his youth had pictured a panther moving. Hands planted on his knees and legs crossed, Erik trails his eyes over all of Harrie, everything that she is. From the few scars on her body that are exposed by the sports jersey, the half-dried nest of black hair, the sharp green of her eyes. The hard slant of her mouth as she takes absolutely no shit, not even from him. Scrappy little white girl.

“What makes you think I’d ever want a relationship, white or not?”

“Nothing. You’ve given me nothing that even hints at it which is why I’m asking. The only reason I’ve not asked earlier is because I hate getting rushed and figured you’d be the same. Which is evidentially the case. Look, if you’ve got shit to do, I don’t care. Been there, done that. What I want to know is if there’s even a chance because I don’t want to waste my life waiting for something that’s never gonna come. If you wanna be platonics, that’s cool with me. But I know what I want. I haven’t a clue what you want, in this or from life in general.” Mulishly folding her arms across her chest, Harrie flicks a curl of hair from her forehead with a short sharp breath from her mouth. Erik rolls his shoulders, gaze still fixed unnervingly on Harrie and she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away as others in his unit have done, as the assholes he had to kick down in his teenage years had once done.

“I ain’t ever considered a relationship, Shawty,” Erik concludes, refusing to backdown from the eye contact. It’s no staring contest, they’re both blinking when needs be. But they have the other’s utmost attention. Erik wouldn’t have it any other way, not when the topic is so fucking heavy. “But I ain’t ever written it off either. I want answers, I want justice for my Pops. I wanna know why I found my Daddy with panther claws in his chest and why I was fucking left to fend for myself. Pops claimed that Wakanda looks after their own but they sure as fuck left me out in the cold, all ‘cause I wasn’t born there. Does that make me any less to them? They’re’ll sittin’ up there, high and pretty, while there’s millions, if not billions of people that look just like them but ain’t got it so great and they ain’t doing nothin’ ‘bout that. Even though they can. They could do that easy, end oppression-”

“End all oppression, or the oppression of black people alone?” Harrie asks and though her voice is quiet is sure as fuck rings through the room. “Don’t get me wrong, Erik. I agree with you that they should be doing more, given how you’ve implied they’re far superior from the rest of the wrong when it comes to technology. But look at the Wizarding World; they’re more than happy to ignore it all and though I’m trying to get them to open up, even if it’s just to muggleborns to begin with, there’s a few centuries of tradition blocking the way. That needs careful handling before there’s even the possibility of opening their eyes to the fact all humans are worth something and I don’t think that’s something you’re quite clicking with either.” He tries to catch the words, tries to force them up and out his throat to reply to that but they’re just not cooperating, stuck in his chest alongside the boiling, burning anger that always brews whenever this topic is touched on. From the look in her eyes, she really fucking believes what she’s saying too.

 

 

With words failing him, Erik storms out the building, going for a jog that turns into a marathon run. By the time he gets back (because spat or not, he ain’t passing up on free accommodations), Harrie’s fast asleep in the ridiculous bed. There’s no tear tracks to her face, but she sure as hell ain’t sleeping soundly either. The couch is just right for sleeping on, given his conditioning so far. He doesn’t have a restful night either.

 

 

Two days later and it’s time to head back. He gets all the way to the airport before Harrie catches up, one hand catching at his and despite himself, Erik stops. He can’t find any words that he wants to say to her, not cohesive ones anyway. He settles for angling his head back, tilting to look at her and that serious, firm face she wears. For all that she has the stature and presence of a wet kitten in this moment, her hand in his feels like a ball and chain that he just can’t shake.

“I don’t want to part on bad terms. Especially with your job and the risks of being me.” The unsaid ‘we might never see one another again’ passes between them, Harrie looking away to inspect a gaggle of children running riot ‘round their exhausted parents. She’s fucking ridiculous. She’s also the only constant he’s had in the past decade. Tugging her closer, Erik wraps one arm around her back, chin resting atop messy black hair. There’s only a moment’s pause before Harrie’s own arm is around his waist. A one-armed hug because he’s still got hold of her other hand, small and thin fingers, adorned only by that clunky black stone that shares the same symbol that marks Erik’s thigh.

“You n’ me, Shawty, we’re unfinished business. You got that?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“My Prince. I have, several questions.”

A child is staring at her and Okoye offers the girl a winning smile, watching her bright blue eyes light up, one chubby hand hastily waving back. Adorable. She still doesn’t want any. Not for a long while at least. Standing next to her with one hand stuffed into the pockets of his American style trousers (these ‘jeans’), Prince T’Challa, the Black Panther, gently clasps at a ribbon of an obnoxiously colourful balloon with the other. Before them, a large pale pink castle resides, constructed to appear as the stereotypical European Fairytale setting. Okoye will happily admit that she has no idea why they are here in this trap for gullible tourists looking for entertainment in a location proclaimed ‘happiest place on earth’. How terribly cheesy. The ice cream, however horrifically overpriced it may be, is delicious.

“I am sure you do, Okoye. Shuri has expressed an interest in visiting this place, or one of its other worldwide locations.”

“Perhaps the Paris variation shall be sufficient? It shall give the princess and yourself the much-needed opportunity to brush up on your French.” Her prince shoots her the most unimpressed of looks and she can do nothing but smile back, nibbling on the last of her waffle-cone.

“Okoye.”

“Just trying to help, my Prince.” T’Challa huffs, hand running through his hair while he inspects the overly colourful balloon. If nothing else, the princess shall probably find some kind of experiment to run with the little gift. Adjusting the strange headband T’Challa had gotten her (it’s ridiculous, mouse ears look nothing alike this), Okoye casually pretends not to notice the device in T’Challa’s hand, pretends she doesn’t recognise it. Though why her Prince feels the need to search the American’s government files, she doesn’t care to ask. It is not any of her business if her prince wishes to go snooping, she just has to keep him alive and well, after all.

Even if it means traversing a place such as this.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

While a necessary evil, Erik’s least favourite mission is breaking up a human trafficking ring. This’ll be his third one and the pit of human despair and depravity they found inside the last two has left him no love for the job. He’ll be creating more scars upon his skin tonight; he’ll have to remember to prepare the clay when he gets back. The rest of the unit are all in position; the guns feel heavy on his person. He knows where each one is, knows exactly how many bullets they are already loaded with, just as he knows how many spare clips he has stored in the ammunitions belt that circles his waist. His father’s ring feels cold, pressed up against his skin now that he’d tucked it beneath the collar of his jumper. The night’s winter’s wind is cutting against his cheeks, even down here in Mexico. Attached to the necklace and bracketing his ring, a total of six keys threaten to catch against his flesh. Harrie’s gift, each one capable of unlocking a different property, locations dotted across the world. Because, apparently, not only had she come from old money but so did her godfather. The godfather who’d died and left her everything in his will. In the very least, he has access to six different safehouses should he need to make use of them. Only one’s in America, however, over in New York. The address is engraved in the key so he’s not bothered to go inspect them, not that he’s had the leave to do so, given he spent his last lot checking over the girl in question after she’d been shot. What a ridiculous woman she is. Shaking his head, Erik looks to Finner, studiously pretending the man’s black eye isn’t his fault. He should be faster, otherwise he’d have been able to dodge Erik’s punch in their little spar eight hours prior. From the scowl on the man’s face, he knows it too. He also undoubtedly knows that if he’d managed to block that one, he’d have ended up with a bruise somewhere else.

“Everyone in position?”

“Yes.”

“Then in we go.”

 

 

Sex trafficking doesn’t appear to be the only thing these fuckers are invested in; there’s children here too young to remember their own name, clearly kidnapped to be passed on to people who want children but are, for whatever reason, not capable of getting them. Or getting a specific type of child. Thunderous footsteps and yelling that’s distinctly unamerican has Erik twisting, peppering the two bodies that appear at the door with two bullets each; one in the head, one in the chest. _Thirty-three. Thirty-four_. Turning back to the handful of children and the woman that’s clearly been taken to play little other than nursemaid (and, for the moment, thoroughly ignoring the rips to her clothing that indicate these fuckers have taken other liberties), Erik squats down to inspect the terrified children. There’s only three of them but they’re all good lookin’ kids, big wide eyes wet at the edges and a plumpness to their features that at least bespeaks they’ve been well cared for. One child, the only black kid there, is looking between both Erik and his own hand, face puzzled. Like he hadn’t expected there’d be anyone else that looked like him. How fucking long as he been here? Stalking over to the door, Erik checks the hallway again, eyes filtering over the bodies that litter the place as if they’re not even there.

“Is the building secure yet.”

“You’re a fucking slave driver, Stevens,” Rollin snarls down the comm but there’s no denial there and Erik’s too worked up to begin a verbal spat over that particular title. He’ll just remember that comment next time they’re sparring. “But yes, we’re secure. Stead has two tied up for answers, but that’s it.”

“There’s children in here; Imma bring ‘em out. We got medical sorted?”

“Yeah, they’re outside.” Nodding to himself, Erik turns back to the woman who’s been watching with fearful, shrewd eyes. She clearly hasn’t understood a lick of what he’d been saying.

“You speak Spanish?” His Spanish isn’t as smooth as his French or his Russian, but it’s enough to get the job done. The woman nods, clearly unwilling to speak and Erik runs a hand up and over his forehead, displacing the dreads that were so neatly tied back into a short ass pony. “There’s gonna be some docs outside; you carry two brats and I can get the last one.” He angles a gun in one hand, indicating why exactly it’s not him carrying two. She nods, swift and sharp, before scrambling for the two girls. That leaves him with the boy who’s now sucking on his thumb. Kid’s eyes haven’t left him once.

“I have them.” The woman’s quiet words have Erik nodding, still focused on the boy who’s not stopped staring.

“Alright, brat. Let’s hop to it.”

 

 

One arm full of child and the other still raised with his gun, even as the make their way outside, Erik strides across to the medic tent that’s been set up. Already there are several victims in a variety of states, all covered in an assortment of bodily fluids that Erik tries his damn best not to pay attention to. The stench is inescapable. He spares only a moment to glance at the woman trailing behind him, her arms heavy with both little white girls. They’re all blonde (no surprises there, white blondes are a hot commodity in the trafficking world) but the two kids are the ones with dark eyes. The woman’s are lightly coloured and Erik decidedly pays them no further attention. They’re not even the right shade of green, barely green at all, really. More a slate grey with a slight drip of blue. The tiniest tinge of green is barely there except when the dawning sunlight strikes her face.

“Baba?” Erik startles, staring down at the boy who’s clearly not been in that shithole as long as the rest of them. Especially if he’s retained a word like that.

“Hell no, kid. You’re going right back to your actual family.” He’ll see to it personally if need be. He’s not gonna let another kid suffer like he did.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Stark’s winter party is clearly the place to be, especially given his recent foray into super-hero antics. Anyone who is anyone is clambering to be here, had clambered for invitations., Harrie had gotten one in the post without even asking, hastily delivered to her by a grumpy Kreacher. Brushing down another of Queenie’s dresses (bless that woman and her exquisite fashion sense, ensuring her wardrobe had stood the test of time and come out classily vintage for it all), Harrie makes her way into the main room, accepting a flute of champagne from an attendant as she goes. She knows barely anyone; she’s spoken to Stark that one time and while there are some people she recognises, they’re from magazines or television interviews alone. Drawing her lip in to suck at the much-bitten flesh, Harrie curls a stand of hair around her ear, weighing up what she has to work with. This is no charity ball, simply a party for the upper-class to partake in. Aunt Petunia would have given anything to be involved in this. The thought brings a smile to her face, one that’d been wary from the thought of socialising. Maybe she should have gone to Slytherin after all, at least then she’d have gotten some practice in on this. Descending the few short stairs to the dancefloor, Harrie knocks back the last of her drink, the empty glass disappearing from her hands as soon as a waiter spotted it.

“Miss Potter, heard you’d just turned up.” Arm snaking through hers, Tony Stark leads her out onto the dancefloor with a dazzling smile. Harrie smiles back and deliberately ignores the blue glow that seeps through the white of his shirt.

“Mr Stark. Congratulations on getting your life together.”

“Ha! Is that what we’re calling it now?” Music, the likes that she’d have expects of a pureblood gathering (only there she’d have thought it performed by one of wizarding ancestry, or from nymphs or something) floats through the air as Stark proceeds to lead her through the motions, twisting around the space that has been set aside for dancers. “Yeah, life together, cutting the crap out and saving people. Hurrah, three cheers for me.”

“You sound depressed.” Stark barks out a bitter laugh, shaking his head and twisting her in another large circle.

“And you sound too world-weary, especially since you can’t even drink in the good old United States of America. Got a lot on your mind?”

“Curious as to why you’re bothering to spend a dance with me when there’s far more women present that won’t get you chewed out by the American media. My soulmate didn’t appreciate the implications they kept slinging.” Sparkly tassels twist out and around as Harrie spins beneath Stark’s arm, the music quickening.

“Yeah. Noticed you like flaunting that.” There’s quiet between them now, punctured only by the brass band. Harrie’s eyes slither over every person she can see standing around, looking posh and important. She’s so focused on trying to decide if the willowy looking fellow by the window is a wizard or not that she nearly misses Stark’s soft question. “What’s it like?”

“What is what like, Mr Stark?”

“Having a soulmate. My mark faded when I was four.” Oh. Ouch. There is a small, unfortunate amount of the population who end up like that, bonded to a dead soulmate that they have never met and, once the mark has faded, never will.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Once again the fall into an easy silence, the likes of which Harrie recalls from the Yule Ball, back when Krum had gallantly asked her for a dance, after checking if her brave date Eddie Carmichael would allow it. “He’s a pain.”

“What?”

“My soulmate. He’s a pain and I’m not even too sure where we stand, even though it’s been eight years. But he taught me to take no shit, to get on with life instead of worrying. And that’s made me into who I am today.” Stark hums in that ambiguous kind of way, saying nothing more as they finish their dance (it isn’t until later on that week she discovers he’s set up a standing order to pay a million dollars into the Sirius Black Foundation; she daren’t ask why, just in case he decides to change his mind).

 

 

Time passes, the party goes on through the night and Harrie accepts only two more flutes, one of champagne again, while the other is some fruity blue cocktail thing that she knows Hermione would just adore. Schemes are made to acquire the recipe at a later date; no doubt her dear friend would love it. Ron, the heathen, would chug any alcohol they passed him. He probably doesn’t even taste it, it spends so little time on his tongue. Smirking at the thought, Harrie scoops a chunk of pineapple from the drink, speared on the end of the pointy little stick, watching the man that she’d dance with but a minute ago disappear into the crowd. He’d asked after her soulmate, subtly so. If Harrie hadn’t had the life she has, she’d never have noticed she was being interrogated. It’d made things easier, she’d been able to effectively sidestep most of his questions, barring sheepishly admitted she didn’t know what the symbols upon her arm meant. Of course she could read the Parselscript, but when the fellow had asked after it, she’d past it off as a family thing with a dismissive wave she’ll never admit to being copied from Narcissa Malfoy.

“You looked particularly uncomfortable there, sweetheart.” The man that stands to her side is younger than Stark, but not by much. She’s never seen him before in her life; one of those generic faces that could be worn by any man here and the backstory would all be the same. Inherited money that they’d used to further whatever business empire they’d managed to get their grasping hands on. He’s got the same aura as Lucius Malfoy.

“Excuse me?” Cocking her eyebrow, Harrie angles her head to stare the man down. It doesn’t matter that, even in her heels, he’s got three inches on her. He huffs, a ruddiness to his cheeks that indicate he’s had far more to drink that he probably should.

“The ape.” It’s like hearing Malfoy all over again, back in first year, slinging around the mudblood slur like it was going out of fashion. Blind to her evident rage, the man continues to talk, not even having had the decency to introduce himself, too busy on his derogatory rant. “Savages reaching above their station, it’s no wonder you looked uncomfortable, given you’re-”

“Happily soul bound to a black man?” Harrie cuts in, her rage bubbling over and sizzling on her tongue. She deposits her empty glass on the silver tray that flashes by, a startled looking waiter eyeing the little spear she’s not relinquished, nor forgotten she has within her hands. Harrie angles it much as she would her wand, aimed at the absolute asshole that has come over and so effectively ruined her night by proving exactly why Erik is so dogged about the oppression of his people. “Proud to know her other half is out there, serving his country in the military, all the while you flounce around on inherited riches that you’ve never had to lift a finger to claim, nevermind defend your position within society? While my soul-mate has strove to progress against all the odds people like you have put him through, with your blatant racial discrimination? The fact people like you even have a voice in the media, that you can proclaim yourself charitable to those in need while spitting right in their faces is absolutely disgusting. If I looked uncomfortable a moment ago, it’s highly preferred to the sheer disgust I’m feeling in your presence.” With the venomously wish that she’d not finished her drink for the sole reason that she’d have something to deposit over the man, Harrie instead throws the small fruit-spear at his feet, offering one last poisonous glare to the man before she whirls on heels. The music has quietened, the band too professional to stop short of anything but a straight-out murder. People are staring and Harrie meets the eyes of each and every person that looks upon her. She’s not Erik and nor will she be ashamed of him, in any capacity. Be it the colour of his skin, the colloquial way in which he speaks, nor the passion with which he chases after his cause. She’ll disagree with him, call him out on his shit when she needs to, but she’ll always fight his corner. Especially against assholes like that.

 

 

The dessert table is awkwardly avoided and Harrie wouldn’t have it any other way. There’s a bubble around her, a high-class no-man’s land right now; this whole place is filled with cowards that’re too dedicated to their social customs to engage her in conversation now. Sure some of them may agree with her, others will disagree with Red-Cheeks, but none of them would declare it. Not right now. Undoubtedly there’ll be some form of media reporting on her bust-up but Harrie is in the right here. She might have let slip a little more than she needed to. Truly she and Erik are well-matched; they both have the same explosive temperature when rubbed the wrong way. That hadn’t been so much as a slight slip of tectonic plates as it had been a localised earthquake. And she, as volcanos are wont to do, had erupted. Violently. Biting into a chocolate dipped strawberry, Harrie spots Stark across the way; unlike everybody else he actually meets her eyes, even flashing her a thumbs up. If anything, that at least manages to provoke a smile from her lips. Stark isn’t bad, not at all. He’s seen what wrongs his company (his actions) have done and now he’s trying to right them. It takes a good man to take that strong stance, to declare enough is enough and that things should change. Erik’s similar, in a twisted sort of way. Only, her soulmate had seen the wrongs from the start, had allowed the oppression to fester a hatred that she’d only just recently dared to drag screaming into the light. They’ve still not sorted it out, had almost parted on uneasy terms. Harrie never wants to regret any kind of parting with him.

“Miss Potter?” The brave soul that is addressing her has not only decided to step into her little sphere of seclusion, he is in fact presenting her with one strong hand, asking for her own.

“Are you sure you want to do that, after the scene I just caused?”

“Completely certain,” the stranger murmurs, a pleasant smile on his lips that warms his dark eyes. He genuinely is certain he wishes to be seen dancing with her after that faux pas. Social suicide or not, allowing comment such as that to go unaddressed just allows the racism to run rampant, sets a precedence for what people are allowed to express within her company. Harrie has made it abundantly clear exactly what she will not stand and yet, here this stranger is still willing to be seen with her. Harrie accepts, sliding her fingers against his own until they can half wrap around his thumb.

“How can I say no to that? Unless you’re unwilling to offer me a name.” Stranger smiles, revealing the slightest gap between his two front teeth. It’s charming, makes him seem a little more human in this gathering of cesspit of aristocracy.

“Prince T’Challa, of Wakanda.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to every single person who’s leaving a comment; I read every one of them and ( ~~though I’m a piece of trash author who can never find the time to respond~~ ) they honestly fuel me.  
> So here, our boy T'Challa meets up with Harrie, at last *manically rubs hands together*


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

Something within Hariel Potter’s face shuts down as he introduces himself, even though there is no visible change to her features. Frozen. Everything about her freezes up for a moment, removing the natural fluidity, the expressiveness that comes so clearly to her. Even the wild riot of curls falls still, no longer brushing up against the tops of her shoulders but instead hovering about them. She blinks once.

“A pleasure, your highness,” she finally murmurs, eyes half-lidded as she smiles. It’s a strained thing, though better hidden than most. Her eyes truly are an exceptionally vivid shade of green, the bright hues of the rainforest, almost cat-like in the curve of her eyelids. Given the subtle shade of the dress she wears, the splash of colour her irises create is particularly striking. “What brings you to my little bubble of exclusion?” A genuine smile blooms across T’Challa’s face now. Hariel Potter is evidentially a very sharp woman, if her eyes didn’t make that explicitly clear, then her words striking true and right most certainly do so. He wonders how long she has known his cousin, for he is certain it is his cousin now. The way in which she reacted to his presence, to his introduction, makes it relatively clear that she knows of Wakanda, though how much of that she truly knows (does she know of their advancements, the truth of his country?) is what he is here to discover.

“A discussion, if you would be so kind as to grant me your time.”

“Well, it’s not like anyone else is trying to encroach on that.” She grins, eyebrows jolting up once in a quick, teasing motion before making for the dancefloor. Their hands are still wrapped around one another and T’Challa takes great care with the placement of his second one, residing upon Hariel Potter’s ribcage. Not too high, but neither is it too low. This is the woman that has spoken to his cousin, evidenced by the furious tirade he’d overheard her aim towards her previous dancing partner. The man’s name escapes him and, in truth, T’Challa has no desire to learn it. What is that one man in the grand scheme of things, other than a person to avoid? There is no reason for the two of them to even meet given Wakanda’s determination to remain distant from the matters the rest of the world concern themselves with. The music is traditionally European, the kind the white man brought over to America and remains a favourite of the upper class. It floats around the room, light and airy. Nothing like the striking vibrance of Wakanda. He can almost picture the disgust and distaste upon Shuri’s face; the mental image brings a larger smile to his face.

“As to my preferred topic of discussion, a letter was sent to your charity foundation, as I had no other mailing address. I assume it has been misplaced within the postal system?” he lifts his voice at the end, allowing the quasi-accusation to end in more of a polite, gentle questioning.

“I’m afraid my mail is screened; if any key-words pop up, it gets destroyed before I even lay eyes on it. Anything that touches on the topic of soulmates and soulmarks… well, I never see those letters.” The unspoken ‘they’re usually a hoax to draw a rich young woman out of hiding’ is clear enough and T’Challa can see the sense within that. All the unreturned correspondence has resulted in is his attendance at this party. He’s very aware of Okoye lingering on the outskirts of the ballroom, clad in a rich red dress and ridiculous wig-piece to disguise her usual appearance as a Dora. Undoubtedly, she will have spotted Hariel Potter’s blatantly Wakanda soulmark, will already have who knows how many theories running through her mind by now. It doesn’t match T’Challa’s in the slightest, the design completed different. It doesn’t spiral outwards from a starburst centre; instead it’s a clearly geometric pattern, a bisected circle within a triangle. All his research had unearthed was its origin in reclusive English folklore. He’s still no closer to uncovering the second language within the mark, only capable of understanding the Wakanda symbols. ‘Woman-Who-Conquered’ sounds as promising as it is irritating; he has no idea why a woman such as Hariel Potter has been christened with a title like that.

“Your markings are of Wakanda, that is true,” T’Challa admits, saving his breath for the moment as he spins the two of them around. His partner is light upon her feet, heels clicking against the marble floors with every step she takes. “And I have reason to believe your paired is a cousin, whom I had no previous knowledge of.” He allows the stress to leak into his voice now, allows her to witness the discomfort such a realisation has brought upon him. Allows her to witness the truth of the situation, that he had no idea this cousin had existed until she came into the limelight, with her blatantly Wakanda soulmark and the damning words within it.

“Excuse me?”

“One of the words within your mark dictates ‘prince’. However, our marks do not match and I have but one sibling, a younger sister. My uncle, Prince N’Jobu, disappear over a decade ago, yet it is only now that I have realised perhaps his son exists within the world.” Hariel Potter cocks her head to a side at his words, teeth digging deep into her lower lip, scraping off the pale pink of her lipstick to reveal the reddening flesh beneath.

“I see,” she murmurs, given absolutely nothing away as to what she does see. What T’Challa does not mention is exactly what he shall be doing once he leaves this place. Checking through the American government’s files; they have data upon all the men serving within their country and, with Hariel Potter having exposed her other half as a soldier of some stature, his cousin should be among their number. “What is it you want from me?”

“A way to contact my cousin,” T’Challa unhesitantly admits, spinning them once again. Okoye’s burning gaze is resting upon his shoulders, he can feel the sheer weight of it pressing down upon him, can hear the unvoiced questions that will no doubt strike him with pinpoint precision the second they have a moment of privacy. The music slowly begins to trail off and his cousin’s soulmate (confirmed in all but word now, given how she continues to speak to him, how she has not yet denied his accusations) has yet to answer him. They stop upon the outskirts of the dancefloor, where the crowd mingle to talk but none approach them, too hesitant over Hariel’s outburst or the unsurety of just who he is and if he is worth talking to. All but Okoye, who is cutting through the crowd, a vibranium spear through metal.

“I’ll consult with him first,” she finally murmurs even if the expression upon her face conveys she doesn’t believe this to be a good idea. Whether that is for herself or for him, T’Challa hasn’t the slightest idea. Instead, he just draws a handkerchief from his pocket and softly asks the nearest waiter for a pen. Soon, enough he has a number written upon the fabric which he then hands to his last dance partner of the evening.

“Please contact me with a response, be it positive or negative.” Not the say he will stop trying if his cousin denies his request for a meeting but things would run far smoother if N’Jobu’s son didn’t put up a fight.

“My Prince,” the tone of death whispers beside him, having finally arrived, “I believe it is time for us to depart. You have matters to confer with me, after all.” Oh, he is in trouble.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

It’s become such a habit now, such a common occurrence, that he barely even registers the pain now. The latest raised bumps, rallying up his other forearm, represent the last eleven lives he’d taken on his latest mission. The winter’s sun resides upon the back of his neck, not yet warm enough to truly register, but present enough to chase the January chill away. The dew riddled grass crumples beneath his boots, leaving a dark imprint of his footsteps as he trails through the graveyard. There’s nobody else about, but given it’s so early in the morning, that’s no surprise. It’s why he’d picked this specific time to visit, after all. He knows the route off by heart; left turn at the ridiculous monument with the four angel wings, right at the chest tomb for Sargent Claxon. Continue forwards, right into the dregs of the cemetery at the back, where the people with so little money are buried, packed in like sardines. His feet know the path, despite the fact it’s been several years. He used to visit all the time back in his early teens, to rage and gripe over life and how he’d been left all alone. Now, now there’s a dull numbness as he stops before the headstone. It’s not even got his father’s real name engraved upon it, just the American pseudonym that his mother’s family had known him as.

Adjusting the collar of his hoodie, Erik squats down to stare at the grave, one hand reaching out to trace over the words. ‘Father, husband’. Prince should have been on there. Prince N’Jobu of Wakanda should have been upon that surface, not ‘Stevens’. Exhaustion drops heavy on his shoulders and Erik forgoes the squatting, instead planting his ass down right by the headstone. Whatever remains of his father is six feet down, just a little to his left now. He’s an orphan, left alone by parents who’d died fighting against oppression or at the very hands of it. It’s fucking ridiculous how so alike they are; it’s no wonder he ended up with her as a soulmate despite the colour of her skin.

“Heard you’ve met that scrappy white girl,” Erik mutters, leaning his head back to let it rest against the headstone, legs stretched out. The dew is making a valiant attempt to soak into the thick denim of his jeans, clinging tight to the fabric. He can’t be bothered to move, to stand or squat to avoid it. What’s a little water and discomfort in the grand scheme of things? “Complete bullshit. Why’d she get ta see you, but imma left out in the cold on that?” While it’s true he’s not had a near death experience, not like what Harrie has (because actually getting killed at then brought back to life is as near a death experience as you can get), there’s still the lingering bitterness stewing. It’s not left his system, not stopped coiling about in his veins ever since Harrie had confessed her short exploration to the ancestral plane that was in no way the actual plane his father had once spoken of. Not when it was based in what he can assume was the old apartment.

Nothing but the silence of the graveyard greets him in return, no birds to sing sweet morning melodies or owls to hoot haunting laments. Erik continues onwards anyway. “Suppose you don’t dislike her though, ya’ll didn’t go outta your way to scare her off.” Eyes closing, Erik kicks at his brain and shitty memory, trying to drag up an image of his father. He’s got photographs, sure, but they’re all shitty quality compared to what the world has now; he’s probably missing something by referring to those photos alone. He knows for sure Wakanda has crystal clear images; Baba had once shown him a picture of the place, one he’d squirrelled out of the country before moving to America. So he could always have a keepsake of home, he’d claimed. Man’d also claimed the sunsets there were the most beautiful in all the world; Erik will see it someday. “Not that I can really picture Whitey bein’ scared off by ya. Probably fight that much harder to stick ‘round.” Snowdrop doesn’t exactly take no for an answer and she’d picked that ‘take no shit’ attitude up from him. How irritating that he’s fucking proud of that.

“Erik.” Eyes slowly peeling open, Erik meets Harrie’s curious gaze, her pale oval face haloed by that ridiculous mass of black curls. They only just kiss at her coat collar; she’d gotten a haircut then. As usual, girl’s dressed to the nines, even in her casual gear. Stylishly cut coat, straight cut jeans tucked into boots with a fur trim. Even the gloves she’s wearing don’t look like the usual mass-produced merchandise, made of some wool that he swears is slowly transitioning between a mint green and a pale blue. Magic or some shit at work, no doubt. He won’t lie and say he’s not surprised to see her turn up outta the blue again but this is their fourth meeting in person; he knows far too much about her for it to only be their fourth meeting.

“How was your high-ass party, Snowdrop?” She hums, retrieving a richly polished stick from her pocket and giving it a shallow wave. The drew upon the grass evaporates around them with a low hiss, creating a ten-foot perimeter of dry earth around them. Harrie sits her pert ass down a foot away from his own but angled so their ankles can knock against each other. Not ankle to ankle, more shin to ankle and his ankle to the tips of her boots. She doesn’t look at the headstone but, then again, if she heard him she hardly needs to.

“Poor and with far too many rich racists than I care to associate with.”

“How many?”

“One,” she admits, running a hand through the curls artfully framing her face. The never fall across her brow, leaving the sharp scar that originally matched their soulmark exposed to any that care to look upon it. When they’d first meet, it’d been hidden beneath a fringe of black locks forcefully pulled over to curtain it. Funny how things change. “If you’re counting the people that stood in silence and allowed it to happen, then I don’t have a definite number for you. And speaking of numbers…” Harrie pauses, fishing about in the ridiculous little bag she’s got slung over one shoulder. It’s clearly supposed to be a fashion statement only; far too small to be of any practical use. It’s only after a second that he recalls Harrie’s got all that magic shit, so perhaps it is of some use. That’s proven when she pulls a small file from the depths of a bag that should have never been able to contain it, flicking it open to peeling a handkerchief free. There’s a number on it, mobile and written in a steady hand using ink pen; the fabric’s rich beneath his fingertips when Harrie hands it to him.

“You braggin’, Snowdrop?” Tryna make a point that she’s got options for the kinda relationship she wants from life? He still recalls their previous discussion, in the hazy depths of a hotel room and finished off under the artificial light of an airport terminal.

“That’s the phone number to contact Prince T’Challa, of Wakanda.” The still silence of the graveyard would be far more preferable to the small, slight breaths Harrie takes now. They’re a blaring reminder she’s present, that she knows more about him than any other fucker in the world right now. Knows his true name, has met his father, knows he’s striving for a release from the shackles of oppression that his brothers and sisters slave away under.

“Wha’d’ya tell him.”

“Fuck all,” Harrie snaps with a scoff, sitting up nice and straight with her arms folded across her chest, all business like and firm scowl. “He said he’d noticed my soulmark was written in Wakandan and, since he already knows his own soulmark, he wanted to find out who the other half way, seeing as he apparently has no idea you existed.” Either that or the fucker wants to finish the job. Uncle James disappeared that day, back when he’d found the panther claws in his daddy’s chest. He’s always had his suspicions that the man was Wakandan, but now… if the rest of the Wakandans knew of him, why leave it; ’till now to track him down? Why not either steal him away in the middle of the night back when he was young and defenceless or try killing him off then? Why wait ‘till now to do any-fucking-thing about him? Is his cousin really telling the truth, that he had no idea he’d existed? If so, Erik can see why. S’not exactly good for the family if his fucker of an uncle tells them he killed his own brother. Hiding Erik’s existence, pretending there is no son of N’Jobu saves a hella lot of family hassle. Which means dear cuz has no idea of what he’s unearthing, what he’s digging into. What bones he’s found in the closet. Erik could laugh, he should laugh.  But the numbness that’d settled into his core upon entering the graveyard is now bubbling, boiling red hot and he’s one upset away from a fucking explosion. All this time he’s been grinding away at the game of life, determined to track down Klaue, kill the bastard while making his way to Wakanda. All this effort, all this fucking time he’s spent toiling away, and Cuz saunters in with a number scribbled down on a handkerchief like it’s an afterthought. In a way, Erik almost feels sorry for him; poor bastard’s got no idea what he’s unleashing, all the dark family secrets that Erik’s entire existence is wrapped up in.

“Wha’d’ya tell him.”

“That I’d talk to you first. It’s your family, not mine. What right do I have to stick my pointy thin nose in?” Harrie grins but it’s a tired expression, the bags under her eyes evidence of one too many restless nights. Her eyes aren’t on his though, instead lingering at his wrist. It takes him a moment to realise why, a moment to register that she’s gazing upon the crocodile scarification that twists up his arm. She doesn’t ask, doesn’t push. Perhaps that’s why he offers the limb out, palm facing upwards with the handkerchief balanced between two fingers. Harrie retrieves it slowly for his grasp and Erik ignores the way her thumb rubs curiously up against one raised scar.

“Call him. Let’s get this reunion started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, so much for getting this finished in August. In my defense, the classroom I was given was left a mess by the previous occupant and I only just got it ready before school suddenly hit. Hence, this chapter coming out just a week before half-term; it's been the first time I've actually had to sit down and get some typing done. In other news, this should be finished by the end of October, seeing as there's one more chappy after this. Then, at some indeterminable point in the future, the sequel.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the love and reviews; I read every damn one and they bring me so much joy,


	10. Chapter 10

 

 

 

Known for its great expanse of desert, Nevada is one of California’s neighbouring states. It shall also become known to her as the state within American where Erik will first meet his cousin.

Sitting upon the bonnet of the truck Erik had hired, Harrie Potter plants her chin into the palm of her hands, elbows resting upon the meat of her thighs and her boots against the truck’s grill. They’ve stopped by a petrol station (where prices are ridiculously low, Harrie notes, when compared against English charges. Then again, her own country proudly boasts of the NHS; she’d rather take free health-care than cheap fuel prices. Especially when she can get around with the twist of her heels and a moment of severe discomfort. Leaning against the side of the truck, Erik’s topping up the tank with the casual ease that he’s done this plenty of times. In truth, Harrie still doesn’t know exactly what his role is in the army (is he even army, or is it navy? All she knows it he’s special Ops) but she can assume now that he’s topped up more than his share of vehicles. Adjusting the collar of her coat, she watches the other occupants of the stop with keen eyes, taking in all that she can see. There’s a small family of four, both children under five, also present, seemingly packed up. Either going to or returning from a family reunion, given the amount of brightly wrapped presents that reside within the boot; she can see the tops of the pile through a half-misted windshield.

“Oi, Snowdrop! Move your ass.” Head tilting back, Harrie watches Erik ram the pump back into position, his body coiled with a tension she’d never witnessed in him before. Oh, she’s seen him tense, seen his shoulders tighten into a hard line from which the world could probably be carried, but she had thought those previous motions were his limit. Turns out he’s got a much higher threshold than she’d previously thought. A maximum capacity that he’s near enough reached by now. Unwilling to submit to the fight he’s clearly itching for (from her or the first idiot to bubble his way into Erik’s path), Harrie hops off the hood and scampers around the side, peeling the truck door open to clamber in. And she does mean clamber. American pick-up trucks are ridiculously big and she’s closer to five foot than six; getting inside this beast really does mean hiking her leg up. Shuffling along the bench, Harrie buckles herself in, flicking her gaze over to Erik when he starts up the engine. They’ve been driving with a silence between them so far, only the quiet hum of the radio providing a shallow background as opposed to a nothingness that would have made things even more uncomfortable. They’ve not said a word to each other since Erik asked if she was tagging along and Harrie had agreed. She has no plans to go with him to Wakanda, just to see him off (just to ensure this isn’t some elaborate scheme to off the competition to the throne; she highly doubts it given the genuine emotion behind Prince T’Challa’s eyes and words but better safe than sorry).

 

 

They’ve spent all day and most of the night driving. It could have taken only 9 hours, but Erik had decided upon the scenic route for Merlin knows what reason. Harrie can recall informing him she hadn’t the slightest idea how to drive a car (and she’s bitten her tongue at the condescending look he’d shot her at that admission) given that the only vehicle she had access to was Sirius’ motorbike, she had no real plans to learn. That’d meant she’d had to magic the truck to drive itself for three hours while her idiot of a soulmate caught a cat-nap.

As the sunlight slowly begins to dawn in the east, Erik’s sleeping head drops to reside upon her own and he lets out a low near-growl of a snore, one that had Harrie pressing her knuckles to her teeth in an attempt to not laugh. He’s utterly out of it, slouched across the bench with his heavy shoulder pressing into hers. Wants to be in tip-top condition for his meeting (hopefully not a confrontation) with his cousin. T’Challa had seemed like a nice enough man when Harrie had spent that one dance with him, polite and well-mannered. The exact opposite of Erik. She still wouldn’t trade them in.

They rumble past an abandoned barn or two, the uneven road surfacing would probably have jolted the truck a hell of a lot more before Harrie had worked her magic. Erik sleeps on. He doesn’t snore again.

Soon enough, they’re pulling over outside the abandoned post office in the unoccupied town of Adaven. While the rumble of the truck had presented no problem for Erik to sleep on through, the sudden absence of motion wakes him instantly, muscles going tense. Then his body heat is gone from her side as he sits up, eyes scanning their surroundings. He notices the only other at the same time she does, only, Harrie recognises T’Challa. Erik’s never met him before, after all, for all that he’s probably done his research on him. T’Challa might not have known of Erik’s existence, but Erik sure knew of his. He knows of Wakanda, knows who his father is; Harrie had been in that same place. Had done her frenzied research to try piecing together her parents’ lives, who they knew and how, tried retracing their every footstep through the twenty-one years they’d both lived. Erik probably has a wealth of information to hand.

“Hey,” Harrie whispers, unwilling to speak above that low tone given the gravity of the current situation. Erik doesn’t do her the courtesy of turning to look at her when she addresses him, but she doesn’t really expect him to. Not when what he’s been chasing after for so long is right in front of him. Not when it’s right there, just a mere moment from his fingertips. “Let me know how everything goes.” The unspoken ‘I’m not going with you but I will be worried’ passes between them; Erik’s jaw tightens in response. Finally, he drags his eyes away from the distant figure of T’Challa, looking at her instead. Even with the sunlight streaking in through the east facing window, his eyes are dark, lips twisting up in a tight little smile.

“Unfinished business, Snowdrop. Don’t you go forgettin’ that.” He taps once at her forearm, the point where her soulmark is hidden beneath the sleeve of her jumper. Harrie, Harrie still doesn’t know where her mark resides upon him. But it feels wrong, clunky and staged to ask at this point. Not when those are apparently his last words to her for the time being, the last sentence (a demand, what a surprise) before he starts a new chapter in his life. It’s about time she gets back to her own really, she’s lingered in America long enough. There are people to help everywhere, that is true. She’s also travelling to see the world and has yet to hit up Asia. They’re going their separate ways, yet again. Even though it hasn’t been long since they last met in person, barely more than a month has passed by in truth.

Erik gets out the truck, lugging the pack he’d stuffed in the footwell up onto his shoulders as he goes. Harrie watches him approach T’Challa, watches their first interaction. It seems jolted and rough, T’Challa asking questions and Erik responding to them with short, snappish answers. She can’t hear them but, oh, she can see them. After so many years of listening to him rant and rave about this, that and the other, Harrie can tell when he doesn’t want to speak. She hopes it all goes well, that Erik gets what he wants out of this.

She doesn’t even know what that is, however.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

T’Challa doesn’t ask any more questions about Harrie after that first one. She’s not coming along, end of story. Irritatingly, he recognises why even with the reason remaining unspoken between them. She’s aware enough that Wakanda is an isolated country by their own design and desires. Recognises that he’s an outsider and he needs to integrate in some way or another. She’s not tryna muscle in on his life and, even with how fucking worried she is (which, in itself is hilarious), she’s doing her best to help him in the only way she can at the moment. By not highlighting how different he is from the rest of them. All those people who live in Wakanda, while he might have a key to get inside, he also is the only one born outside. Having a soulmate from the outside, a white soulmate at that, will just make things that more obvious.

Sitting in the jet that’s so fucking advanced Erik wouldn’t even know where to start with piloting it (that’s a lie, he knows he’d start with inspecting the dash and the controls and his big brain would help him run it from there), he eyes his cousin cautiously. T’Challa genuinely has no fucking clue what happened to his uncle N’Jobu, that much is clear. There’d been genuine pleasure and happiness in those eyes when they’d first landed on him. He’d even gone to greet him with a hug, like how those long-lost relatives meet up in the movies. Fuck that shit; Erik had put the brakes on that right away. He’s not doing that mushy shit, not with the family that left him out in the cold, not with the family who’d never bothered to look into N’Jobu’s life enough to realise he had a damn kid. Not when it’s T’Challa’s father that killed him. Oh, Erik’s sure it’s him. Utterly positive; there can only be one Black Panther after all and those markings on his father’s body couldn’t be cause by anything other than the claws of Wakanda’s ‘protector’. Fuck that shit. Erik’s coming with a can of worms so rotten it’s gonna tear the family of Wakanda apart. He almost feels sorry for T’Challa who’s so ignorant of what his father is truly like that he’s inviting Erik into his home with open arms. Has even come to pick him up all on his own, no doubt slipping whatever royal guard should be on him. If they don’t get a pink slip (or whatever the Wakandan equivalent is) then Erik’s been told a shit ton of lies about the country’s efficiency by his dad. And Baba didn’t lie. Not to him. With how… pleased his cousin seems to be with finding him, Erik almost feels bad for the clusterfuck he’s going to bring down on Wakanda with his presence. Almost. He does feel a bit sorry for T’Challa, sheltered as he is, there’s clearly no way it would ever cross the other royal’s mind to think blood would betray blood. Erik… Erik, whose head used to swim with the thought of his Black Panther uncle, found his daddy with panther claws in his chest. Erik is all to aware that blood can mean nothing when it comes down to the line.

“How long have you known her?” It’s the first time that T’Challa has spoken up since the first shutdown of conversation; it’s less invasive than the question of their current status and Erik chews over the enquiry in his head. His cousin is… not bad. He’s sheltered as fuck and clearly doesn’t know too much of what’s going on in the world. Ignorance is bliss n’ all that shit. But, while he’s not as guilty as the fucker currently occupying the throne with his blood drenched fingers, he’s still guilty. Guilty with his ignorance, his unwillingness to go out and actually look, to see the world as it is and not just the ritzy tourist spots they parade before royalty.

“I was fifteen when I woke up in a meeting place,” Erik admits, drumming his fingers against the side of his thigh, right over the top of his soulmark. T’Challa looks as if he wants to continue his questioning but what lays beyond the windscreen is what demands Erik’s attention. He’s out of his seat and on his feet in the time it takes T’Challa to exhale, peering into the thick jungle shrubbery his idiot of a cousin is about to crash through. Unless…

They pass through it all, an illusion created by technology, the forcefields Baba used to speak of. Erik watches Wakanda, the near-mythical land of his childhood, open up before him. It unrolls across the landscape, a rich vibrant swath of colour. It’s exactly as he pictured it and yet, so much more, all at the same time. Thought’s of Harrie, thoughts of T’Challa, all the shit he’s been through; it all leaves his mind. In that moment, all that matters is Wakanda, the country of his people stretching out before him, open and welcoming.

 

 

 

The sensation lasts for all of thirty minutes. Specifically, the thirty minutes it takes T’Challa to land the jet and walk him to the palace. The thirty minutes it takes them to slip past the guards (his cousin is suspiciously light and quick with reactions better than Erik’s own apex reflexes). The thirty minutes that runs to a halt when he finally sets eyes upon his uncle. King T’Chaka sits with the council of tribe elders, half way through an address when he spots his son. His sentence crumbles when he spots Erik standing next to him. Do the others see the panic that sets into the eyes of their fuckward king? Or is it just Erik who witnesses it? Just Erik who catches the surprise, the sadness, the disappointment and the hint of terror? The nostalgia should be hitting him hard; while he’s no carbon copy, Erik knows there’s enough of his dad in him to ensure they have some physical resemblance to each other. “Prince T’Challa, who is it you bring before us?” The man who speaks does so around a turquoise lip plate, his eyes narrowed. In response, Erik pulls the necklace up from beneath the collar of his shirt, flashing the singlet ring that resides between a cushion of little keys and witch-made talismans.

“I am N'Jadaka, son of Prince N'Jobu.” Erik wants it to come out as a statement but it tears from his lips as more of a snarl. As the people gasp, as the person who Erik can only assume is the queen of this country shoots her husband a horrified look, he strides forwards, ignoring the way the Dora raise their spears at him (him, a member of the royal family who was left out in the cold and so far away from their protection). He meets the gaze of the fucker who dares call himself king, meets his gaze and feels his gut blaze, feels it burn and spark and his blood run like lava, hot and sluggish. His hand is up before he can even think better of it, one finger pointing towards T’Chaka, his heart thundering away behind his ribcage. “I found my daddy with panther claws in his chest! You ain't a king, you're a murderer! And I challenge you for the throne!”

 

 

It passes quickly. The preparations that is. Erik snarls that he doesn’t need no fancy audience. Of course, that’s only after the king agrees to his challenge, even as his queen screams for him to not entertain this outside. Erik had smirked at her, addressed her as auntie. It’d fallen from his lips like poison, dripping in venom and aimed to hurt, to sting and burn. Funny, he’s got an aunt, Harrie’s got an aunt. Neither of them like that relative, but Erik doesn’t actively hate this woman. ‘S not like she knew she was married to a fucking murderer, to a bastard that’d kill his own brother. Stretching out the kinks in his shoulders, Erik considers the spear he’d been handed before shaking his head. He snaps it in two, twirling the pieces between his hands, forcing himself to become familiar with the weapon he’ll soon be fighting for his life with. It’s not like it’ll be a difficult fight; T’Chaka’s old and outta shape. Erik’s in his prime, has trained in several different styles of marital arts and has severed in the military until… until a day and a half ago, when he went AWOL after Harrie admitted to having a way to contact his Cuz. Oh well. S’not like he’s going back, is it? Lips curling, Erik steps out into the field, the thunderous rush of water echoing in his ears as it encases his feet in cool, foamy liquid. Already his eyes are analysing the place, taking in the obstacles, the points that could aid him, the points that could cause an issue. The sharp jut of the rock ledges, the way water disappears over the edge into a canyon deeper than he can estimate with sight alone. Twisting the sort spear in one hand, he deposits the other half, snatching up the shield as a second thought. Harrie’s talismans clank together alongside keys and his old man’s ring.

Only, it’s not T’Chaka that’s dressed for combat.

Erik listens with clenched teeth and a tight jaw as he hears how T’Challa shall fight in his father’s place, how his cuz is already the Black Panther, gifted by Bast and the heart-shaped herb. He watches as T’Challa has the power of the Black Panther striped away from him, so that they may fight evenly. Fairly. It’s the first fucking time someone has ever taken the precautions needed to make a fight fair for Erik. It’s fucking ridiculous. His cousin’s eyes glimmer with hurt and betrayal. There’s a spark of hope there too, as if he thinks Erik will back down. He’s only known T’Challa for a day, only known is cousin a day. That’s not worth giving up the goals he’s spent a lifetime cultivating. Not when the fucker who murdered his father is mere feet from him, when justice is so close he can taste it. Not when Uncle James (or whatever his fucking true name is) is looking at him in ill-concealed horror. No, it’s only T’Challa, out of all the fuckers here, who has cared. Maybe that’s why Erik goes outta his way to make things fair, throwing one of the two good-luck charms he’s got at his cuz. He doesn’t explain what it is but T’Challa still pockets it anyway. T’Chaka’s watching them, his wife by his side. He knows her name, has done as much research as he can on the country that isolates itself. But like fuck is Erik gonna bother to address her by it, not when she dubbed him a charlatan and an outsider.

Erik tastes blood in his mouth as he delivers the first strike.

Cuz puts up a good fight, but in the end, it’s just not good enough. He doesn’t yield, refuses to do so. And Erik actually takes a moment to allow him to do it, gives him the opportunity. But he doesn’t. T’Challa tries to gather himself for one more attack, to strike yet again. Erik throws him off the side of the cliff. In the accompanying scream of disbelief and denial, in the cries against his very existence, he feels the slightest touch of regret. Cuz hadn’t been a bad person, had loved his family and clearly not believed they could do no wrong. That sheltered attitude, that assurance in Wakanda and its inability to do no wrong had cost him. Faced with Erik, the physical evidence that not just Wakanda but his own father, that T’Chaka was capable of great mistakes and great crimes, had weakened him. T’Challa had come into the fight unsure and had paid the price for it. He’d lost and Erik is a king now.

He wonders what Harrie’ll make of it all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you get this now while ff.net get it as soon as 24 hours have passed since the last chapter. 
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed this and it sets up for part 2 nice enough, where some familiar faces will be popping up.

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this is taken from a South African proverb; 'Love, like rain, does not choose the grass on which it falls.'
> 
> Maybe I'll change this from a oneshot at some point, I don't know where I'd go with it all though?


End file.
